’I’m afraid she tells fortunes, and dabbles in all sorts of superstitious tricks,’ Milly added gravely; ’but she is so artful, there is no way of finding her out in that kind of business.  The foolish country girls who consult her always keep her secret, and she manages to put on a fair face before our rector and his curate, who believe her to be a respectable woman.’

The days and weeks slipped by very pleasantly at Thornleigh, and the end of those bright midsummer holidays came only too soon.  It seemed a bitter thing to say ‘good-bye’ to Milly Darrell, and to go back alone to a place which must needs be doubly dull and dreary to me without her.  She had been my only friend at Albury Lodge; loving her as I did, I had never cared to form any other friendship.

The dreaded day came at last—­dreaded I know by both of us; and I said ‘good-bye’ to my darling so quietly, that I am sure none could have guessed the grief I felt in this parting.  Mrs. Darrell was very kind and gracious on this occasion, begging that I would come back to Thornleigh at Christmas—­if they should happen to spend their Christmas there.

Milly looked up at her wonderingly as she said this.

‘Is there any chance of our spending it elsewhere, Augusta?’ she asked.

Mrs. Darrell had persuaded her stepdaughter to use this familiar Christian name, rather than the more formal mode of address.

’I don’t know, my dear.  Your papa has sometimes talked of a house in town, or we might be abroad.  I can only say that if we are at home here, we shall be very much pleased to see Miss Crofton again.’

I thanked her, kissed Milly once more, and so departed—­to be driven to the station in state in the barouche, and to look sadly back at the noble old house in which I had been so happy.

Once more I returned to the dryasdust routine of Albury Lodge, and rang the changes upon history and geography, chronology and English grammar, physical science and the elements of botany, until my weary head ached and my heart grew sick.  And when I came to be a governess, it would of course be the same thing over and over again, on a smaller scale.  And this was to be my future, without hope of change or respite, until I grew an old woman worn-out with the drudgery of tuition!

CHAPTER V.

MILLY’S LETTER.

The half-year wore itself slowly away.  There were no incidents to mark the time, no change except the slow changes of the seasons; and my only pleasures were letters from home or from Emily Darrell.

Of the home letters I will not speak—­they could have no interest except for myself; but Milly’s are links in the story of a life.  She wrote to me as freely as she had talked to me, pouring out all her thoughts and fancies with that confiding frankness which was one of the most charming attributes of her mind.  For some time the letters contained nothing that could be called news; but late in September there came one which seemed to me to convey intelligence of some importance.