It was then settled that my departure from Hanbury, my happy home for so long, was to take place before many weeks had passed.  And as, when one period of life is about to be shut up for ever, we are sure to look back upon it with fond regret, so I, happy enough in my future prospects, could not avoid recurring to all the days of my life in the Hall, from the time when I came to it, a shy awkward girl, scarcely past childhood, to now, when a grown woman,—­past childhood—­almost, from the very character of my illness, past youth,—­I was looking forward to leaving my lady’s house (as a residence) for ever.  As it has turned out, I never saw either her or it again.  Like a piece of sea-wreck, I have drifted away from those days:  quiet, happy, eventless days,—­very happy to remember!

I thought of good, jovial Mr. Mountford,—­and his regrets that he might not keep a pack, “a very small pack,” of harriers, and his merry ways, and his love of good eating; of the first coming of Mr. Gray, and my lady’s attempt to quench his sermons, when they tended to enforce any duty connected with education.  And now we had an absolute school-house in the village; and since Miss Bessy’s drinking tea at the Hall, my lady had been twice inside it, to give directions about some fine yarn she was having spun for table-napery.  And her ladyship had so outgrown her old custom of dispensing with sermon or discourse, that even during the temporary preaching of Mr. Crosse, she had never had recourse to it, though I believe she would have had all the congregation on her side if she had.

And Mr. Horner was dead, and Captain James reigned in his stead.  Good, steady, severe, silent Mr. Horner! with his clock-like regularity, and his snuff-coloured clothes, and silver buckles!  I have often wondered which one misses most when they are dead and gone,—­the bright creatures full of life, who are hither and thither and everywhere, so that no one can reckon upon their coming and going, with whom stillness and the long quiet of the grave, seems utterly irreconcilable, so full are they of vivid motion and passion,—­or the slow, serious people, whose movements—­nay, whose very words, seem to go by clockwork; who never appear much to affect the course of our life while they are with us, but whose methodical ways show themselves, when they are gone, to have been intertwined with our very roots of daily existence.  I think I miss these last the most, although I may have loved the former best.  Captain James never was to me what Mr. Horner was, though the latter had hardly changed a dozen words with me at the day of his death.  Then Miss Galindo!  I remembered the time as if it had been only yesterday, when she was but a name—­and a very odd one—­to me; then she was a queer, abrupt, disagreeable, busy old maid.  Now I loved her dearly, and I found out that I was almost jealous of Miss Bessy.

Mr. Gray I never thought of with love; the feeling was almost reverence with which I looked upon him.  I have not wished to speak much of myself, or else I could have told you how much he had been to me during these long, weary years of illness.  But he was almost as much to every one, rich and poor, from my lady down to Miss Galindo’s Sally.