Essentially an ascetic person, she was looked upon with fear by all the villagers.  Her manner was brusque, her speech sharp, and her criticism of neglectful mothers caustic and much to the point.  Prim, always in black bonnet and jet-trimmed cape of years gone by, both in summer and winter, she took no heed of the vagaries of fashion, even when they reached Woodnewton so tardily.

The common report was that when a girl she had been “crossed in love,” for her single maidservant she always trained to a sober and loveless life like her own, and as soon as a girl cast an eye upon a likely swain she was ignominiously dismissed.

That the sharp-tongued spinster possessed means was undoubted.  It was known that she was sister of Sir Henry Heyburn of Caistor, in Lincolnshire; and, on account of her social standing, she on rare occasions was bidden to the omnium gatherings at some of the mansions in the neighbourhood.  She seldom accepted; but when she did it was only to satisfy her curiosity and to criticise.

The household of two, the old lady and her exemplary maid, was assuredly a dull one.  Meals were taken with punctual regularity amid a cleanliness that was almost painful.  The tiny drawing-room, with its row of window-plants, including a pot of strong-smelling musk, was hardly ever entered.  Not a speck of dust was allowed anywhere, for Miss Emily’s eye was sharp, and woe betide the maid if a mere suspicion of dirt were discovered!  Everything was kept locked up.  One maid who resigned hurriedly, refusing to be criticised, afterwards declared that her mistress kept the paraffin under lock and key.

And into this uncomfortably prim and proper household little Gabrielle had suddenly been introduced.  Her heart overburdened by grief, and full of regret at being compelled to part from the father she so fondly loved, she had accepted the inevitable, fully realising the dull greyness of the life that lay before her.  Surely her exile there was a cruel and crushing one!  The house seemed so tiny and so suffocating after the splendid halls and huge rooms at Glencardine, while her aunt’s constant sarcasm about her father—­whom she had not seen for eight years—­was particularly galling.

The woman treated the girl as a wayward child sent there for punishment and correction.  She showed her neither kindness nor consideration; for, truth to tell, it annoyed her to think that her brother should have imposed the girl upon her.  She hated to be bothered with the girl; but, existing upon Sir Henry’s charity, as she really did, though none knew it, she could do no otherwise than accept his daughter as her guest.

Days, weeks, months had passed, each day dragging on as its predecessor, a wretched, hopeless, despairing existence to a girl so full of life and vitality as Gabrielle.  Though she had written several times to her father, he had sent her no reply.  To her mother at San Remo she had also written, and from her had received one letter, cold and unresponsive.  From Walter Murie nothing—­not a single word.