yielded myself to the fate that was in store for
me. I learned to dress with taste, to wear my
hair in the newest style, and to waltz to perfection.
But I could not go on paying visits for
ever, and the time arrived when I found it
necessary to turn my back on lively scenes and
prepare for the obscurity of Hillsbro'. This
was a remote place in the north country, from
whence were dated all the letters addressed by
Mrs. Hollingford to me since the time when she
had become my guardian.

I did not go to Hillsbro' Farm in any unfair
state of ignorance as to the present worldly
position of its owners. Grace Tyrrell (my
schoolfellow) was careful to let me know the
depth of the degradation to which these friends
of an old time had fallen from their once high
estate: also to make me aware of the estimation
in which they were held by the people of her
world. The idea of my going to Hillsbro' was
ridiculed till I got angry, but not ashamed.

"Those poor Hollingfords!" said one lady.
"I am sure it is very kind of you, Miss Dacre,
to pay them a visit; but live with them, my
dear!—you could not think of identifying yourself
with such people. Are you aware that the
father ruined numbers of people, absconded
with his pockets full of money, and never was
heard of since?"

"Yes," said I; "but I have nothing to do
with Mr. Hollingford. And I dare say if his
wife had taken ill-gotten riches down to Hillsbro'
with her, the police would have followed
her before this; for she gives her address quite
openly."

I afterwards heard this lady telling Grace
that her friend was a very pert young woman.
I did not mind, for, through fighting Mrs.
Hollingford's battles, I had come to think that I
loved her memory; and I tried to do so for my
mother's sake.

"It is not at all necessary to live with a
guardian," said Grace. "They say Mrs. Hollingford
makes butter and sells it; and Frederick
says the son is a mere ploughman. He is Mr.
Hill's agent; Frederick met him by chance,
quite lately, when he was shooting at
Hillsbro'."

"Agent, is he?" said I, mischievously.
"Then I should think he must at least know
how to read and write. Come, that is not so
bad!"

"You will get the worst of it, Grace," said
Frederick Tyrrell, who was listening. "Lucky
fellow, Hollingford, to have such a champion!"

So here I had better explain to you, my dears,
that Captain Tyrrell was, even at this time,
what old-fashioned people used to call a great
beau of mine; that he was fond of dangling
about my skirts and picking up my fan.
Nothing more on this subject is necessary here.
If you desire to know what he is like, I refer
you to an old water-colour sketch of a weak-
faced, washed-out looking young man, with
handsome features, and a high-collared coat,
which you will find in an old portfolio up-stairs,
on the top shelf of the wardrobe, in the lumber-
room. It was done by Grace's own hand, a
portrait of her brother, and presented to me in
those days. It has lain in that portfolio ever
since.

Though I fought for the Hollingfords, and
would hear no word against them, I do confess
that I suffered much fear as to how I should
manage to accommodate myself to the life
which I might find awaiting me at Hillsbro'
Farm. That idea of the butter-making, for
instance, suggested a new train of reflections.
The image of Mrs. Hollingford began to divest
itself gradually of the long velvet cloak and
majestic mien which it had always worn in my
mind, and I speculated as to whether I might
not be expected to dine in a kitchen with the
farm-servants, and to assist with the milking of
the cows. But I contrived to keep my doubts
to myself, and went on packing my trunks with
a grudging conviction that at least I was doing
my duty.

And it is here, just when my packing was
half done, that the strange, beautiful face of
Rachel Leonard rises up to take its place in my
history. I was introduced to her by chance; I
did not know her story, nor that she had a
story, nor yet that she was connected with any
people whose intimate acquaintance I was
likely to make in the future.

We met at a small musical party, where we
had opportunities for conversation. She wore
a white Indian muslin, with a bunch of scarlet
flowers in the bosom. We were sitting in a
softly lighted corner, and her figure was in a
relief against a crimson curtain. Her face was
oval and olive, with an exquisite mingling of
warmth and purity, depth and delicacy, in its
tone. Her dark hair was swept up to the top
of her head in a crown of braids, as it was then
worn. Her eyes were dark grey, and very
sweet, with a mysterious shadow of sadness
about them when her face was in repose; yet,
when they smiled they shone more than any
eyes I have ever seen.

"Miss Dacre and Miss Leonard, I must
make you acquainted," said our hostess (the
meddling lady whom I have already quoted on
the subject of the Hollingford misdemeanours).
"You intend passing the winter at Hillsbro',
Miss Leonard?"

"Yes," replied Rachel; "I believe we shall
be at the hall about Christmas."

"Ah! and you have never been there before?
I can assure you it is the most dreary place;
you will be glad of a young friend in the
neighbourhood. Miss Dacre's whim is one of our
amusements at present. She is going to
Hillsbro' to stay with a lady who is the mother
of Mr. Hill's agent."

"Mrs. Cowan?" said Miss Leonard, with a
ladylike assumption of interest in the subject.

"Not at all, my dear; the Cowans were
worthy people, but Mr. Hill has changed his
agent. Have you not heard? No, of course.
Hollingford is the name of these people. The
father was a banker, the bank smashed, and he
ran away with large sums of money."