Of course Milly told him that there were many people who would miss him—­Mr. Collingwood for instance, and all the family at the Rectory.  He bent over her, and said something in a very low voice—­something that brought vivid blushes to her face; and a few minutes afterwards they went to the door to look at the weather, and stood there talking till I have heard the last of Mrs. Thatcher’s woes, and was free to join them.  I had never seen Milly look so lovely as she did just then, with her downcast eyes, and a little tremulous smile upon her perfect mouth.

Mr. Egerton walked all the way home with us.  The storm was quite over, the sun shining, and the air full of that cool freshness which comes after rain.  We talked of all kinds of things.  Mr. Egerton had almost made up his mind to spend the autumn at Cumber, he told us; and he would go to the Pensildon fete, and take Milly’s side in the croquet-match.  He seemed in almost boyish spirits during that homeward walk.

When we went up-stairs to our rooms that night, Milly followed me into mine.  There was nothing new in this; we often wasted half an hour in happy idle talk before going to bed; but I was sure from my darling’s manner she had something to tell me.  She went over to an open window, and stood there with her face turned away from me, looking out across the distant moonlit sea.

‘Mary,’ she said, after a very long pause, ’do you think people are intended to be quite happy in this world?’

’My dear love, how can I answer such a question as that?  I think that many people have their lives in their own hands, and that it rests with themselves to find happiness.  And there are many natures that are elevated and purified by sorrow.  I cannot tell what is best for us, dear.  I cannot pretend to guess what this life was meant to be.’

’There is something in perfect happiness that frightens one, Mary.  It seems as if it could not last.  If it could, if I dared believe in it, I should think that my life was going to be quite happy.’

’Why should it be otherwise, my dear Milly?  I don’t think you have ever known much sorrow.’

’Not since my mother died—­and I was only a child then—­but that old pain has never quite gone out of my heart; and papa’s marriage has been a greater grief to me than you would believe, Mary.  This house has never seemed to be really my home since then.  No, dear, it is a new life that is dawning for me—­and O, such a bright one!’

She put her arms round my neck, and hid her face upon my shoulder.

‘Can you guess what Angus Egerton said to me to-day?’ she asked, in a low tremulous voice.

’Was it something very wonderful, dear—­or something as old as the world we live in?’

’Not old to me, Mary—­new and wonderful beyond all measure.  I did not think he cared for me—­I had never dared to hope; for I have liked him a little for a long time, dear, though I don’t suppose you ever thought so.’