‘You will be grieved to hear, my darling Mary,’ she wrote, after a little playful discussion of my own affairs, ’that my stepmother and I are no nearer anything like a real friendship than we were when you left us.  What it is that makes the gulf between us, I cannot tell; but there is something, some hidden feeling in both our minds, I think, which prevents our growing fond of each other.  She is very kind to me, so far as perfect non-interference with my doings, and a gracious manner when we are together, can go; but I am sure she does not like me.  I have surprised her more than once looking at me with the strangest expression—­a calculating, intensely thoughtful look, that made her face ten years older than it is at other times.  Of course there are times when we are thrown together alone—­though this does not occur often, for she and my father are a most devoted couple, and spend the greater part of every day together—­and I have noticed at those times that she never speaks of her girlhood, or of any part of her life before her marriage.  All that came before seems a blank page, or a sealed volume that she does not care to open.  I asked some trifling question about her father once, and she turned upon me almost angrily.

“I do not care to speak about him, Milly,” she said; “he was not a good father, and he is best forgotten.  I never had a real friend till I met my husband.”

’There is one part of her character which I am bound to appreciate.  I believe that she is really grateful and devoted to papa, and he certainly seems thoroughly happy in her society.  The marriage had the effect which I felt sure it must have—­it has divided us two most completely; but if it has made him happy, I have no reason to complain.  What could I wish for beyond his happiness?

’And now, Milly, for my news.  Julian Stormont has been here, and has asked me to be his wife.

’He came over last Saturday afternoon, intending to stop with us till Monday morning.  It was a bright warm day here, and in the afternoon he persuaded me to walk to Cumber Church with him.  You remember the way we drove through the wood the day we went to the Priory, I daresay; but there is a nearer way than that for foot passengers, and I think a prettier one—­a kind of cross-cut through the same wood.  I consented willingly enough, having nothing better to do with myself, and we had a pleasant walk to church, talking of all kinds of things.  As we returned Julian grew very serious, and when we were about half way upon our journey, he asked me if I could guess what had brought him over to Thornleigh.  Of course I told him that I concluded he had come as he usually did—­for rest and change after the cares of business, and to talk about business affairs with papa.

’He told me he had come for something more than that.  He came to tell me that he had loved me all his life; that there was nothing my father would like better than our union if it could secure my happiness, as he hoped and believed it might.