tion of leaving the cottage
the next morning; and she had determined, after her sense of her own
importance had been sufficiently flattered, to grant the prayer of the
helpless young lady. Those were her anticipations--and how had they been
fulfilled? She had been treated like a mad woman in a state of revolt!

"How dare you assault me?" she asked piteously. "You ought to be ashamed
of yourself. God knows I meant well."

"You are not the first person," Emily answered, quietly releasing her,
"who has done wrong with the best intentions."

"I did my duty, miss, when I told you what your aunt said."

"You forgot your duty when you listened to what my aunt said."

"Allow me to explain myself."

"No: not a word more on _that_ subject shall pass between us. Remain
here, if you please; I have something to suggest in your own interests.
Wait, and compose yourself."

The purpose which had taken a foremost place in Emily's mind rested on
the firm foundation of her love and pity for her aunt.

Now that she had regained the power to think, she felt a hateful doubt
pressed on her by Mrs. Mosey's disclosures. Having taken for granted
that there was a foundation in truth for what she herself had heard in
her aunt's room, could she reasonably resist the conclusion that there
must be a foundation in truth for what Mrs. Mosey had heard, under
similar circumstances?

There was but one way of escaping from this dilemma--and Emily
deliberately took it. She turned her back on her own convictions; and
persuaded herself that she had been in the wrong, when she had attached
importance to anything that her aunt had said, under the influence
of delirium. Having adopted this conclusion, she resolved to face the
prospect of a night's solitude by the death-bed--rather than permit Mrs.
Mosey to have a second opportunity of drawing her own inferences from
what she might hear in Miss Letitia's room.

"Do you mean to keep me waiting much longer, miss?"

"Not a moment longer, now you are composed again," Emily answered. "I
have been thinking of what has happened; and I fail to see any necessity
for putting off your departure until the doctor comes to-morrow morning.
There is really no objection to your leaving me to-night."

"I beg your pardon, miss; there _is_ an objection. I have already told
you I can't reconcile it to my conscience to leave you here by yourself.
I am not an inhuman woman," said Mrs. Mosey, putting her handkerchief to
he