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“Why, indeed, Lady Frances Somerset, I must allow,” said Miss Burrage, “is not the fittest companion in the world for a person of your ladyship’s nerves; but then it is to be hoped that the glass of water which you have just taken fresh at the pump will be of service, provided the racketing to Bristol to the play don’t counteract it, and undo all again.”

“How I dread going into that Bristol playhouse!” said Miss Burrage to herself–“some of my precious relations may be there to claim me. My aunt Dinah–God bless her for a starched quaker–wouldn’t be seen at a play, I’m sure–so she’s safe;–but the odious sugar-baker’s daughters might be there, dizened out; and between the acts, their great tall figures might rise in judgment against me–spy me out–stare and curtsy–pop–pop–pop at me without mercy, or bawl out across the benches, ‘Cousin Burrage! Cousin Burrage!’ And Lady Diana Chillingworth to hear it!–oh, I should sink into the earth.”

“What amusement,” continued Miss Burrage, addressing herself to Lady Di., “what amusement Lady Frances Somerset can find at a Bristol playhouse, and at this time of the year too, is to me really unaccountable.”

“I do suppose,” replied Lady Diana, “that my sister goes only to please that child–(Clara Hope, I think they call her)–not to please me, I’m sure;–but what is she doing all this time in the pump-room? does she know we are waiting for her?–oh, here she comes.–Frances, I am half dead.”

“Half dead, my dear! well, here is something to bring you to life again,” said Lady Frances: “I do believe I have found out Miss Warwick.”

“I am sure, my dear, that does not revive me–I’ve been almost plagued to death with her already,” said Lady Diana.

“There’s no living in this world without plagues of some sort or other–but the pleasure of doing good makes one forget them all: here, look at this advertisement, my dear,” said Lady Frances: “a gentleman, whom I have just met with in the pump-room, was reading it in the newspaper when I came in, and a whole knot of scandal-mongers were settling who it could possibly be. One snug little man, a Welsh curate, I believe, was certain it was the bar-maid of an inn at Bath, who is said to have inveigled a young nobleman into matrimony. I left the Welshman in the midst of a long story, about his father and a young lady, who lost her shoe on the Welsh mountains, and I ran away with the paper to bring it to you.”

Lady Diana received the paper with an air of reluctance.

“Was not I very fortunate to meet with it?” said Lady Frances.

“I protest I see no good fortune in the business, from beginning to end.”

“Ah, because you are not come to the end yet–look–’tis from Mrs. Hoel, of the inn at Cardiffe, and by the date, she must have been there last week.”

“Who–Mrs. Hoel?”

“Miss Warwick, my dear–I beg pardon for my pronoun–but do read this–eyes–hair–complexion–age–size–it certainly must be Miss Warwick.”

“And what then?” said Lady Di, with provoking coldness, walking on towards home.

“Why, then, my dear, you know we can go to Cardiffe to-morrow morning, find the poor girl, and, before any body knows any thing of the matter, before her reputation is hurt, or you blamed, before any harm can happen, convince the girl of her folly and imprudence, and bring her back to you and common sense.”

“To common sense, and welcome, if you can; but not to me.”

“Not to you!–Nay; but, my dear, what will become of her?”

“Nay; but, my dear Frances, what will the world say?”

“Of her?”

“Of me.”

“My dear Di., shall I tell you what the world would say?”

“No, Lady Frances, I’ll tell you what the world would say–that Lady Diana Chillingworth’s house was an asylum for runaways.”

“An asylum for nonsense!–I beg your pardon, sister–but it always provokes me to see a person afraid to do what they think right, because, truly, ‘the world will say it is wrong.’ What signifies the uneasiness we may suffer from the idle blame or tittle-tattle of the day, compared with the happiness of a young girl’s whole life, which is at stake?”