Then over one of those beautiful Derbyshire moors we drove, and so into a wide wooded hollow, where was our first view of Cousin Monica’s pretty gabled house, beautified with that indescribable air of shelter and comfort which belongs to an old English residence, with old timber grouped round it, and something in its aspect of the quaint old times and bygone merrymakings, saying sadly, but genially, ’Come in:  I bid you welcome.  For two hundred years, or more, have I been the home of this beloved old family, whose generations I have seen in the cradle and in the coffin, and whose mirth and sorrows and hospitalities I remember.  All their friends, like you, were welcome; and you, like them, will here enjoy the warm illusions that cheat the sad conditions of mortality; and like them you will go your way, and others succeed you, till at last I, too, shall yield to the general law of decay, and disappear.’

By this time poor Milly had grown very nervous; a state which she described in such very odd phraseology as threw me, in spite of myself—­for I affected an impressive gravity in lecturing her upon her language—­into a hearty fit of laughter.

I must mention, however, that in certain important points Milly was very essentially reformed.  Her dress, though not very fashionable, was no longer absurd.  And I had drilled her into speaking and laughing quietly; and for the rest I trusted to the indulgence which is always, I think, more honestly and easily obtained from well-bred than from under-bred people.

Cousin Monica was out when we arrived; but we found that she had arranged a double-bedded room for me and Milly, greatly to our content; and good Mary Quince was placed in the dressing-room beside us.

We had only just commenced our toilet when our hostess entered, as usual in high spirits, welcomed and kissed us both again and again.  She was, indeed, in extraordinary delight, for she had anticipated some stratagem or evasion to prevent our visit; and in her usual way she spoke her mind as frankly about Uncle Silas to poor Milly as she used to do of my dear father to me.

’I did not think he would let you come without a battle; and you know if he chose to be obstinate it would not have been easy to get you out of the enchanted ground, for so it seems to be with that awful old wizard in the midst of it.  I mean, Silas, your papa, my dear.  Honestly, is not he very like Michael Scott?’

‘I never saw him,’ answered poor Milly.  ‘At least, that I’m aware of,’ she added, perceiving us smile.  ’But I do think he’s a thought like old Michael Dobbs, that sells the ferrets, maybe you mean him?’

’Why, you told me, Maud, that you and Milly were reading Walter Scott’s poems.  Well, no matter.  Michael Scott, my dear, was a dead wizard, with ever so much silvery hair, lying in his grave for ever so many years, with just life enough to scowl when they took his book; and you’ll find him in the “Lay of the Last Minstrel,” exactly like your papa, my dear.  And my people tell me that your brother Dudley has been seen drinking and smoking about Feltram this week.  How long does he remain at home?  Not very long, eh?  And, Maud, dear, he has not been making love to you?  Well, I see; of course he has.  And apropos of love-making, I hope that impudent creature, Charles Oakley, has not been teasing you with notes or verses.’