What could be more interesting?  As a matter of fact, considerable assemblies did gather, daily, to see the Indians perform their dances, or sing their songs, or to hear one of them relate their legends, which Christian translated into musical and fluent English.  Bailey explained his own connection with the party by saying that they required some one to look after the more practical matters of lodging, food, etc., which Christian, a stranger in Europe, could not well do, and professed himself to be a mere hired accessory.  It was Christian who was the soul of all, the hero, who, for a noble purpose, endured a daily mortification of his legitimate pride.  And with Christian, Mary Wynter fell deeply in love.  Everything helped her—­nothing hindered.  Did no other girl ever fall in love with a creature as purely of her imagination?  A good many wives, perhaps, know something about it, and a good many old maids also—­who are the better off.

When the visit to London ended, and she went back to the old solitary life, everything had changed to her.  Her days, which had been empty, were full of dreams, her heart grew tender, glad, hopeful, with a sweet unreasonable content.  Even George seemed less disagreeable to her; she began to think she had been often ill-tempered, and must try to make amends.  Christian had found means—­or Bailey had found them for him—­to make her believe herself as much to him as he was to her.  She knew that the whole party had left London, and were moving from place to place.  By-and-by they would come to Cheshire, and then she would see or hear of them.  Christian had not proposed to her to marry him, nor had she deliberately considered such a possibility—­she loved him, and he would soon be near her again, that was enough for the present.

In this mood she passed the rest of summer, and the early autumn.  Mr. Wynter and George spent most of the day together, and she saw little of them until dinner-time.  The evenings were social, after a fashion.  Sometimes Mary played or sung—­sometimes George read aloud.  Mr. Wynter liked to be amused, but he did not care to talk.  Thus, even the hours they spent together led to no acquaintance between father and daughter—­each was altogether in the dark as to the thoughts, feelings, and projects of the other.

One November morning Mary was sitting alone as usual.  She had intended to go out, but it was grey and cheerless out of doors, and the attraction of a bright fire, and a new book, proved too strong for her.  The book was one of her favourite Indian stories, and she lost herself in the delightful depths of the “forest primeval” with an entire and blissful forgetfulness of England and common sense.  But she roused herself, with a start of no little surprise, when her father suddenly walked into the room.

“Papa!” she cried, jumping up and letting her book fall, with a sudden conviction that something important indeed, must have brought so unusual a visitor.