breathing her perfumed breath into all the
corners. The presence of life had wrought
upon the handsome sticks and stones that
furnished the rooms, and transformed them into
household gods. Firelight twinkled in all the
chambers, bringing out the lustre of coloured
glass and costly hangings into the sallow
daylight of the winter noon. I do not know how
it was that on the day of arrival at the hall I
made my appearance at an earlier hour than
they expected me. I learned afterwards, by
chance, that they had not looked for me till
the dinner hour, whilst I understood that it was
desired of me to present myself early in the
day, so that Rachel and I might have some
quiet hours during which to renew our
acquaintance before we should be called upon to
mix among the company now staying at the
hall. Good Mrs. Hill was one of those people
whose manner would make you believe that if
you deny them the thing they desire at your
hands, you will undoubtedly destroy their
peace, but who will probably have forgotten
their request and its motive whilst you are yet
pondering it, and forcing your own will that it
may be complied with. The mistake about the
hour of my arrival was one of those pieces of
confusion which seem too trifling ever to be
worth clearing up. But it was a mistake which
caused me months of unutterable misery.

The idea of the visit had always been
distasteful to me; but, having made up my mind
to go, I thought it was better to be amiable
for John's sake. About mid-day I said good-
bye to the three who were already my mother
and sisters, and set out to walk across the
moor to the hall. John was to dine with the
Hills that day, so I should see him in the evening.
My baggage had been sent on before me
early in the morning. It seemed very absurd
to feel so sorry at leaving home to stay at a
fine house, where the hours would be one scene
of feasting and merry-making. In earlier days
it would have been otherwise. But the farm,
with its busy inmates, its old-fashioned nooks
and corners, its homely sights and sounds, had
grown strangely sufficient for the desires of
my life.

I arrived at the hall, gaining the grounds by
a descent from the hill at their back, and
coming, so, round by the gardens to the house.
Mrs. Hill was out driving with some of her
guests. Mr. Hill was out with some of his
guests. A maid would go and seek for Miss
Leonard, and in the mean time I was conducted
to my room.

Such a room as it was. I smiled at myself
for thinking it so grand, for I had certainly
slept in as fine a chamber before. But of late
I had forgotten how long is wealth's list of
necessities, and had learned to live without a
velvet dormeuse at the fireside of my sleeping
apartment, branches of wax-candles on the
mantel, and long mirrors on every side to make
me feel as if half-a-dozen impertinent young
women were for ever prying into, and making
a mockery of, my movements. I had lately
been accustomed to hear the heels of my shoes
go clinking over the well-waxed boards of my
simple room, and to look out at the woods and
fields through a narrow framework of white
dimity. Here were voluptuous curtains and
carpets that forbade sound, and denied the
daylight. The farm was my beau-ideal of a home;
therefore my room at the farm was my beau-
ideal of a room: therefore all this comfort was
oppressive and ridiculous.

Miss Leonard did not come to seek me.
Perhaps she was out. I guessed there was a
mistake, and made myself content. I declined
the services of a maid, unpacked my trunk, and
laid out my dinner dress upon the bed. After
this I knew not what to do, and sat down to
rest. I looked at the swelling dormeuse over
whose cushions the firelight wavered drowsily.
"We are not likely to have velvet couches at
the farm," I thought, " and it is better to
despise such foolish luxuries." So I drew out
a stiff-backed chair, and sat down to muse
before the fire.

I soon got tired of this, for I could not think
without conjuring up my familiar wonders and
forebodings, and these must be kept in the
background in order that I might conduct
myself properly in this house. I opened my door
and looked around me. I knew the place well,
but I did not care to be seen roaming about
before I had received a welcome from my host
or hostess. Weariness enabled me to overcome
this difficulty, and I presently found
myself in the gallery where the pictures hung and
the curiosities were displayed in their cabinets;
where chairs were placed for people to sit upon,
and screens erected to keep away the draughts;
and where the light from the stained dome in
the roof fell mellowly over the knight made of
armour, who stood quite at the end of the
gallery, near a narrow staircase which led down
to the back premises of the house. This knight
was as an old friend. Mopsie had been very
fond of a nook formed by the angle of the wall
at his back, and in the days of our " readings"
had dragged a deep-seated arm-chair up the
staircase close by, and arranged a tall light
screen behind his shoulders, forming a tiny
triangular chamber. When I came upon this
retreat now I took possession of it, for it was a
pleasant place to sit in. The massive helmet of
the knight on his pedestal soared above the top
of the screen, and stood out in bold relief
against the soft brilliance of the painted dome.
I seated myself in Mopsie's chair, and drew a
little book from my pocket. In this little book
John had copied out for me some sweet quaint
rhymes which were favourites of his and mine,
and because I had thought the writing and the
writer could never be glorified enough, I had
wrought round the margin of the pages a border
of fanciful arabesque, which I had filled in with
colours and gold.

I turned over the pages absently. By-and-
by I heard footsteps coming down the gallery,
and voices drawing near me. I hoped that,
whoever the people were, they might pass on