’I don’t see anything strange in it.  Nothing more natural than that you should dream about him, and it was certain that I should receive a letter from Mr. Grandly; he promised to write to me in a few days.’

’Then you believe what is in that letter—­I don’t.  Something tells me that he will not act kindly, but I don’t know how.’

’I’m quite sure you are wrong, Emily.  Mr. Grandly would never have written this letter unless he knew for certain that Mr. Price would do all or more than he promised.’

’I can’t see from the letter that he has promised anything...  Even if he does give me three hundred a year, I shall have to leave Ashwood.’

’My dear Emily, I’m cross with you:  of course, if you will insist on always looking at the melancholy side....  Now I’m going; I’ve to see after the housekeeping.  Are you going into the garden?’

‘Yes, presently.’

Emily did not seem to know what she was going to do.  She looked out of the window, she lingered in the corridor; finally she wandered into the library.  The quaint, old-fashioned room recalled her childhood to her.  It was here she used to learn her lessons.  Here was the mahogany table, at which she used to sit with her governess, learning to read and write; and there, far away at the other end of the long room, was the round table, where lay the old illustrated editions of Gulliver’s Travels and The Arabian Nights, which she used to run to whenever her governess left the room.  And at the bottom of the book-cases there were drawers full of strange papers; these drawers she used to open in fear and trembling, so mysterious did they seem to her.  And there was the book-cases full of the tall folios, behind which lay, in dark and dim recesses, stores of books which she used to pull out, expecting at every moment to come upon long-forgotten treasures.  She smiled now, as she recalled these childish imaginings, and lifting tenderly the coarse drugget, she looked at the great green globe which her fingers used to turn in infantile curiosity.

Then leaving the library, she roamed through the house, pausing on the first landing to gaze on the picture of the fine gentleman in a red coat, his hand for ever on his sword.  She remembered how she used to wonder whom he was going to kill, and how sure she used to feel that at last he would grant his adversary his life.  And close by was the picture of the wind-mill, set on the edge of the down, with the shepherd driving sheep in the foreground.  Her whole life seemed drenched with tears at the thought of parting with these things.  Every room was full of memories for her.  She was a little girl when she came to live at Ashwood, and the room at the top of the stairs had been her nursery.  There were the two beds; both were now dismantled and bare.  It was in the little bed in the corner that she used to sleep; it was in the old four-poster that her nurse slept.  And there was the very place, in front of the fire,