But desperate conditions need desperate remedies, so I determined to lay the matter before my uncle and let him and my cousins decide the question for themselves.
With this object in view, one bright spring morning, I took horse at the Leg Tavern in King Street, Westminster, and rode to Sundridge to spend a few days with my uncle, hoping to interest my beautiful cousin in the Duchess of York's announcement concerning the choice of her maids.

I knew that Sir Richard would protest against Frances's going to Whitehall, but I hoped, with the help of my cousins, to override the old gentleman's feeble will.

While I saw clearly the dangers the girl would encounter; I had faith in her strength, and felt sure the chances of making her fortune were worth the risk.

In other words, I was staking a human soul which was infinitely dear to me, against wealth and station--a hundred to one chance, even with the Fates smiling.

When one considers how seldom the long odds are taken and how often they win, one cannot help believing that courage is the touchstone of Fortune; the criterion by which the capricious Goddess measures her votaries and distributes her smiles.
I made my journey to Sundridge and arrived there in the afternoon near the hour of three, finding my uncle and my cousin Sarah at home, but Frances abroad.
"She walks a great deal nowadays," remarked my uncle, and Sarah assented with--"Yes, a great deal," having, I fancied, more significance in her manner than in her words.
"There has been hardly a pleasant afternoon in a month that she has not been abroad with her book," continued Sir Richard.
"Her book," murmured Sarah, who was a laconic young person, much given to observing conditions about her and equally prone to keep her conclusions to herself.
"She refuses all company," remarked my uncle, who did not seem to catch the sceptical inflection in his younger daughter's voice, "and I sometimes fear she wishes to be alone because she is brooding over our misfortunes." "Brooding!" murmured Sarah, with slightly lifted eyebrows.
"Even when she is at home she sits all day long at the window and sighs," said Sir Richard, dolefully.
"Sighs," concurred laconic Sarah.
There are so many symptoms which, in a young woman, may seem to indicate the disease of love that one making a hasty diagnosis is likely to fall upon that malady, it being prevalent in spring, both of the year and of life.