When Sir Richard returned to his dressing-room at about noon, to prepare for dinner, he had hardly walked to the toilet, and rung for his Italian servant, when a knock was heard at his chamber door, and, in obedience to his summons, Mistress Carey entered.
"Well, Carey," inquired the baronet, as soon as she had appeared, "do you bring me any news?"
The lady's-maid closed the door carefully.
"News?" she repeated. "Indeed, but I do, Sir Richard—and bad news, I'm afeard, sir. Mr. O'Connor has written a great long letter to my mistress, if you please, sir."
"Have you gotten it?" inquired the baronet, quickly.
"Yes, sir," rejoined she, "safe and sound here in my breast, Sir Richard."
"Your young mistress has not opened it—or read it?" inquired he.
"Oh, dear! Sir Richard, it is after all you said to me only the other day," rejoined she, in virtuous horror. "I hope I know my place better than to be fetching and carrying notes and letters, and all soarts, unnonst to my master. Don't I know, sir, very well how that you're the best judge what's fitting and what isn't for the sight of your own precious child? and wouldn't I be very unnatural, and very hardened and ungrateful, if I was to be making secrets in the family, and if any ill-will or misfortunes was to come out of it? I purtest I never—never would forgive myself—never—no more I ought—never."
Here Mistress Carey absolutely wept.
"Give me the letter," said Sir Richard, drily.