She met her former friend and lecturer with a grave shyness, for she remembered well how they had parted, and thought he could hardly have forgiven, much less forgotten, her passionate flinging away from him.  But the truth was, after the first few hours of offended displeasure, he had ceased to think of it at all.  She, poor child, by way of proving her repentance, had tried hard to reform her boisterous tom-boy manners, in order to show him that, although she would not give up her dear old friend Dixon, at his or anyone’s bidding, she would strive to profit by his lectures in all things reasonable.  The consequence was, that she suddenly appeared to him as an elegant dignified young lady, instead of the rough little girl he remembered.  Still below her somewhat formal manners there lurked the old wild spirit, as he could plainly see after a little more watching; and he began to wish to call this out, and to strive, by reminding her of old days, and all her childish frolics, to flavour her subdued manners and speech with a little of the former originality.

In this he succeeded.  No one, neither Mr. Wilkins, nor Miss Monro, nor Mr. Ness, saw what this young couple were about—­they did not know it themselves; but before the summer was over they were desperately in love with each other, or perhaps I should rather say, Ellinor was desperately in love with him—­he, as passionately as he could be with anyone; but in him the intellect was superior in strength to either affections or passions.

The causes of the blindness of those around them were these:  Mr. Wilkins still considered Ellinor as a little girl, as his own pet, his darling, but nothing more.  Miss Monro was anxious about her own improvement.  Mr. Ness was deep in a new edition of “Horace,” which he was going to bring out with notes.  I believe Dixon would have been keener sighted, but Ellinor kept Mr. Corbet and Dixon apart for obvious reasons—­they were each her dear friends, but she knew that Mr. Corbet did not like Dixon, and suspected that the feeling was mutual.

The only change of circumstances between this year and the previous one consisted in this development of attachment between the young people.  Otherwise, everything went on apparently as usual.  With Ellinor the course of the day was something like this:  up early and into the garden until breakfast time, when she made tea for her father and Miss Monro in the dining-room, always taking care to lay a little nosegay of freshly-gathered flowers by her father’s plate.  After breakfast, when the conversation had been on general and indifferent subjects, Mr. Wilkins withdrew into the little study so often mentioned.  It opened out of a passage that ran between the dining-room and the kitchen, on the left hand of the hall.  Corresponding to the dining-room on the other side of the hall was the drawing-room, with its side-window serving as a door into a conservatory, and this again opened into the library.  Old Mr. Wilkins had