Miriam rose, ventured to kiss her aunt, and departed.

Three months passed, and Miriam and Andrew agreed that there was vegetation in London as well as in Cowfold.  They began indeed to think it was even a little greener in Cowfold than in Nelson Square itself.

Miriam had been out for walks—­she had been as far as Regent Street; but Regent Street began to lose its charms, especially as she had no companions.  Her landlady, Miss Tippit, was a demure little person of about fifty years, but looking rather younger, for her hair was light.  It was always drawn very tightly over her forehead, and with extreme precision under her ears.  She invariably wore a very tight-fitting black gown, and as her lips too were somewhat tightly set, she was a very tight Miss Tippit altogether.  It was necessary to be so, for beyond an annuity of 20 pounds a year, she had no means of support save letting her lodgings.  She was very good, but her goodness appeared to lack spontaneity.  It seemed as if she did everything, and even bestowed her rare kisses, under instructions from her conscience, and every tendency to effusiveness was checked as a crime.  Yet the truth was that she was naturally kind and even generous, but disbelieving in nature on the whole, she never would sanction any natural instinct unless she could give it the form of duty.  She was an unpleasant companion at times, because she often felt bound to “set things right,” and made suggestions which were resented as interference.  When she visited her friends, for she had two or three, she invariably assumed the reins, and was provocative by reason of her unauthorised admonitions to the servants or remarks upon defective management.  Another odd thing was that Miss Tippit was a Christian.  She went to church regularly twice every Sunday, and it was always her parish church.  She might have found something to do her more good if she had gone farther afield; but she considered it her duty to go to her own church as she called it.  The parson was not eminent, belonged to no school, and said nothing which was specially helpful; but Miss Tippit listened with respect, heard the Bible read, did her best to join in the hymns with her little thin voice, and prayed the church prayers.  She contrived, through what she heard, and what she sang, and what she prayed, not only to provide herself with an explanation which she did not doubt of the here and hereafter—­an explanation which would not probably have been secure against Strauss—­but she obtained a few principles by which she regulated this present life—­principles of extreme importance, which scepticism must admit if the world is not to go to ruin.  In the church, too, in the corner against the wall, when the music sounded, or when the voice of the priest was heard asking for the Divine mercy, the heart of Miss Tippit often moved, notwithstanding the compression of her tight black dress, and something seemed to rebel in her throat