Poor Milly’s father had been the sort of landowner—­to the honour of England be it said the species has ever been comparatively rare—­who regarded his tenants as of less interest than the livestock on his home farm.  What he had done for them he had done grudgingly; but it was even now clear to them all that in the new squire they had a very different kind of gentleman.

Varick was moved and touched—­far more so than any of those present realized.  The scene before him—­this humble little school-room, and the simple people standing there—­meant to him the fulfilment of a life-long dream.  And that was not all.  As he was hesitating for his first word, his eyes rested on the front bench of his audience, and he saw Helen Brabazon’s eager, guileless face, upturned to his, full of interest and sympathy.

He also felt himself in touch with the others there.  Blanche, looking her own intelligent, dignified, pleasant self, was a goodly sight.  Sir Lyon Dilsford, too, was in the picture; but Varick felt a sudden pang of sympathy for the landless baronet.  Sir Lyon would have made such a good, conscientious squire; he was the kind of man who would have helped the boys to get on in the world—­the girls, if need be, to make happy marriages.  James Tapster looked rather out of it all; he looked his apathetic, sulky self—­a man whom nothing would ever galvanize into real good-fellowship.  How could so intelligent a woman as Blanche think that any money could compensate a clever, high-spirited girl like Bubbles for marrying a James Tapster?  Varick was glad Bubbles was not “in front.”  She was probably divesting herself of that extraordinary witch costume of hers behind the little curtained aperture to his left.

And then, all at once, he realized that Bubbles was among his audience after all!  She was sitting by herself, on a little stool just below the platform.  He suddenly saw her head, with its shock of dark-brown hair, and there came over him a slight feeling of discomfort.  Bubbles had worked like a Trojan.  All this could not have happened but for her; and yet—­and yet Varick again told himself that he could very well have dispensed with Bubbles from his Christmas house party.  There was growing up, in his dark, secretive heart, an unreasoning, violent dislike to the girl.

All these disconnected thoughts flashed through his mind in something under half-a-minute, and then Varick made his pleasant little speech, welcoming the people there, and saying he hoped there would ensue a long and pleasant connection between them.

There was a great deal more stamping of feet and handclapping, and then gradually the company, gentle and simple, dispersed.

Miss Farrow still had long and luxuriant hair, and perhaps the pleasantest half-hour in each day had come to be that half-hour just before she dressed for dinner, when Pegler, with gentle, skilful fingers, brushed and combed her mistress’s beautiful tresses, and finally dressed them to the best advantage.