term him in speaking of him after dinner; but
for all that he came to hate his "perfect treasure,"
as he gradually felt that Dunster had become
so indispensable to the business that his
chief could not do without him.

The clients re-echoed Mr. Wilkins's words, and
spoke of Mr. Dunster as invaluable to his master;
a thorough treasure, the very saving of the business.
They had not been better attended to, not
even in old Mr. Wilkins's days; such a clear
head, such a knowledge of law, such a steady,
upright fellow, always at his post. The grating
voice, the drawling accent, the bottle-green coat,
were nothing to them; far less noticed, in fact,
than Wilkins's expensive habits, the money he
paid for his wine and horses, and the nonsense of
claiming kin with the Welsh Wilkinses, and
setting up his brougham to drive about—— shire
lanes, and be knocked to pieces over the rough
round paving-stones thereof.

All these remarks did not come near Ellinor to
trouble her life. To her, her dear father was the
first of human beings; so sweet, so good, so
kind, so charming in conversation, so full of
accomplishment and information! To her healthy
happy mind every one turned their bright side.
She loved Miss Monro – all the servants – especially
Dixon, the coachman. He had been her
father's playfellow as a boy, and, with all his
respect and admiration for his master, the
freedom of intercourse that had been established
between them then had never been quite lost.
Dixon was a fine stalwart old fellow, and was as
harmonious in his ways with his master as Mr.
Dunster was discordant; accordingly, he was a
great favourite, and could say many a thing which
might have been taken as impertinent from
another servant.

He was Ellinor's great confidant about many
of her little plans and projects; things that she
dared not speak of to Mr. Corbet, who, after her
father and Dixon, was her next best friend. This
intimacy with Dixon displeased Mr. Corbet. He
once or twice insinuated that he did not think it
was well to talk so familiarly as Ellinor did with
a servant— one out of a completely different class
— such as Dixon. Ellinor did not easily take hints;
every one had spoken plain out to her hitherto;
so Mr. Corbet had to say his meaning plain out
at last. Then, for the first time, he saw her angry;
but she was too young, too childish, to have
words at will to express her feelings; she only
could say broken beginnings of sentences, such
as, "What a shame! Good, dear Dixon, who
is as loyal and true and kind as any nobleman. I
like him far better than you, Mr. Corbet, and I
shall talk to him." And then she burst into tears
and ran away, and would not come to wish Mr.
Corbet good-by, though she knew she should not
see him again for a long time, as he was returning
the next day to his father's house, from whence
he would go to Cambridge.

He was annoyed at this result of the good
advice he had thought himself bound to give to a
motherless girl, who had no one to instruct her
in the proprieties in which his own sisters were
brought up; he left Hamley both sorry and
displeased. As for Ellinor, when she found out the
next day that he really was gone— gone without
even coming to Ford Bank again to see if she
were not penitent for her angry words— gone
without saying or hearing a word of good-by—
she shut herself up in her room, and cried more
bitterly than ever, because anger against herself
was mixed with her regret for his loss. Luckily,
her father was dining out, or he would have
inquired what was the matter with his darling;
and she would have had to try to explain what
could not be explained. As it was she sat with
her back to the light during the schoolroom tea,
and afterwards, when Miss Monro had settled
down to her study of the Spanish language, Ellinor
stole out into the garden, meaning to have a
fresh cry over her own naughtiness and Mr.
Corbet's departure; but the August evening was
still and calm, and put her passionate grief to
shame, hushing her up, as it were, with the other
young creatures, who were being soothed to rest
by the serene time of day, and the subdued light
of the twilight sky.

There was a piece of ground surrounding the
flower-garden, which was not shrubbery, nor
wood, nor kitchen-garden— only a grassy bit, out
of which a group of old forest-trees sprang.
Their roots were heaved above ground; their
leaves fell in autumn so profusely that the turf
was ragged and bare in spring; but, to make up
for this, there never was such a place for snowdrops.

The roots of these old trees were Ellinor's
favourite play-place; this space between these
two was her doll's kitchen, that its drawing-
room, and so on. Mr. Corbet rather despised
her contrivances for doll's furniture, so she had
not often brought him here; but Dixon delighted
in them, and contrived and planned with the
eagerness of six years old rather than forty.
Tonight Ellinor went to this place, and there were
all a new collection of ornaments for Miss Dolly's
sitting-room made out of fir-bobs, in the prettiest
and most ingenious way. She knew it was
Dixon's doing, and rushed off in search of him to
thank him.

"What's the matter with my pretty?" asked
Dixon, as soon as the pleasant excitement of
thanking and being thanked was over, and he had
leisure to look at her tear-stained face.

"Oh, I don't know! Never mind," said she
reddening.

Dixon was silent for a minute or two, while
she tried to turn off his attention by her hurried
prattle.

"There's no trouble afoot that I can mend?"
asked he, in a minute or two.

"Oh no! It's really nothing— nothing at all,"
said she. " It's only that Mr. Corbet went away
without saying good-by to me, that's all." And she
looked as if she should have liked to cry again.

"That was not manners," said Dixon, decisively.