my individuality in her own, the gradual elimination from my life of all its colour and freshness.  She strove earnestly, and with infinite patience, to change me from a dreamy, passionate child—­a child full of strange wild moods, capricious, and yet easily touched either to laughter or tears—­into a prim and elegant young lady, colourless and formal, and of the most orthodox boarding-school pattern; and if she did not quite succeed in the attempt, the fault, such as it was, must be set down to my obstinate disposition and not to any lack of effort on the part of Miss Chinfeather.  And now this powerful influence had vanished from my life, from the world itself, as swiftly and silently as a snowflake in the sun.  The grasp of the hard but not unkindly hand, that had held me so firmly in the narrow groove in which it wished me to move, had been suddenly relaxed, and everything around me seemed tottering to its fall.  Three nights ago Miss Chinfeather had retired to rest, as well, to all appearance, and as cheerful as ever she had been; next morning she had been found dead in bed.  This was what they told us pupils; but so great was the awe in which I held the mistress of Park Hill Seminary that I could not conceive of Death even as venturing to behave disrespectfully towards her.  I pictured him in my girlish fancy as knocking at her chamber door in the middle of the night, and after apologising for the interruption, asking whether she was ready to accompany him.  Then would she who was thus addressed arise, and wrap an ample robe about her, and place her hand with solemn sweetness in that of the Great Captain, and the two would pass out together into the starlit night, and Miss Chinfeather would be seen of mortal eyes nevermore.

Such was the picture that had haunted my brain for two days and as many nights, while I wandered forlorn through house and playground, or lay awake on my little bed.  I had said farewell to one pupil after another till all were gone, and the riddle which I had been putting to myself continually for the last forty-eight hours had now been solved for me by Mrs. Whitehead, and I had been told that I too was going home.

“To the care of Lady Chillington, Deepley Walls, Midlandshire.”  The words repeated themselves again and again in my brain, and became a greater puzzle with every repetition.  I had never to my knowledge heard of either the person or the place.  I knew nothing of one or the other.  I only knew that my heart thrilled strangely at the mention of the word Home; that unbidden tears started to my eyes at the thought that perhaps—­only perhaps—­in that as yet unknown place there might be someone who would love me just a little.  “Father—­Mother.”  I spoke the words, but they sounded unreal to me, and as if uttered by another.  I spoke them again, holding out my arms and crying aloud.  All my heart seemed to go out in the cry, but only the hollow winds answered me as they piped mournfully through the yellowing leaves, a throng of which went rustling down the walk as though stirred by the footsteps of a ghost.  Then my eyes grew blind with tears and I wept silently for a time as if my heart would break.