I was beginning to be afraid that Mrs. Barton would never arrive at a full stop,—­she was a little like Mrs. Drabble in that; they were both discursive and parenthetical speakers, only Mrs. Drabble’s meaning was more involved,—­but before I had time to answer, a deep voice from the kitchen startled us.

’Mother, how long do you mean to keep Miss Garston in that cold, dark place?  It is enough to starve her,’ And at this rebuke Mrs. Barton hurried me into the front kitchen.  I was tired by this time, and glad to bid them both good-night.  And yet the widow’s talk interested me.  It was not Mr. Hamilton’s fault that he had a face like a Romish priest; evidently he had his good points, like other people, in spite of his rudeness in laughing at me.  But I could not—­no, I could not tolerate that remark of his, ’that a girl would do anything to make herself talked about.’  It was odious, cynical, utterly malevolent.  I hoped Uncle Max would defer the introduction as long as possible.  I never wished to know anything of Gladwyn or its master.  These thoughts occupied me until I fell asleep; and then I dreamt of Jill.

Once or twice I woke in the night, disturbed by a low growl from Tinker, who slept in the passage.  I heard afterwards that his dreams were always haunted by cats.  He was an inveterate enemy to all the feline species, with the exception of Peter, the great tabby cat.  They had long ago sworn an armistice, and, in his way, Tinker took a great deal of notice of Peter.

It was strange to look round the low cottage room by the flickering, fast-dying firelight.  The rain still pattered on the garden paths.  I was rather dismayed to find that it had not ceased the next morning; it is so pleasant to wake up in a fresh place and see the bright sunshine.  This piece of good luck was denied me, however.  When I looked out of my window I could only see dripping laurels and great pools in the gravel walks.  The gray sky had not a break in it.  I was glad when I was ready to go down to my parlour, for the fire and breakfast-table would look cheerful by comparison; and afterwards I would set to work so busily that I should not have time to notice the rain.

And so it proved; for until my early dinner—­or rather luncheon—­was served, I was employed in unpacking and arranging my books and ornaments.

On my journeys to and fro I often paused at the low staircase window to reconnoitre the weather.  There was no garden behind the cottage; a small gravelled yard, where Mrs. Barton kept her poultry and some rabbits belonging to Nathaniel, opened by a gate into a field.  There was a cow-house there, and a white cow was standing rather disconsolately under some trees.  I found out afterwards that both the field and the cow belonged to Mrs. Barton, so I could always rely on a good supply of sweet new milk.

Nathaniel had put up my book-shelves when I had sent them with the other furniture, so I had only to arrange the books.  I made use, too, of some nails he had driven in for my pictures.