‘Tut, tut,’ said Miss Prettyman, as Grace in vain tried to conceal her tears up in the private sanctum.  ’You ought to know me by this time, and to have learned that I can understand things.’  The tears had flown in return not only for the five gold sovereigns which Miss Prettyman had pressed into her hand, but on account of the prettiest, soft, grey merino frock that ever charmed a girl’s eye.  ’I should like to know how many girls I have given dresses to, when they have been going out visiting.  Law, my dear; they take them, many of them, from us old maids, almost as if we were only paying our debts in giving them.’  And then Miss Anne gave her a cloth cloak, very warm, with pretty buttons and gimp trimmings—­just such a cloak as any girl might like to wear who thought that she would be seen out walking with her Major Grantly on a Christmas morning.  Grace Crawley did not expect to be seen out walking by her Major Grantly, but nevertheless she liked the cloak.  By the power of her practical will, and by her true sympathy, the elder Miss Prettyman had for a while conquered the annoyance, which on Grace’s part, was attached to the receiving of gifts, by the consciousness of her poverty; and when Miss Anne, with some pride in the tone of her voice, expressed a hope that Grace would think the cloak pretty, Grace put her arms pleasantly round her friend’s neck, and declared that it was very pretty—­the prettiest cloak in all the world!

Grace was met at the Guestwick railway station by her friend Lily Dale, and was driven over to Allington in a pony carriage belonging to Lily’s uncle, the squire of the parish.  I think she will be excused in having put on her new cloak, not so much because of the cold as with a view of making the best of herself before Mrs Dale.  And yet she knew Mrs Dale would know all the circumstances of her poverty, and was very glad that it should be so.  ‘I am so glad that you have come, my dear,’ said Lily.  ‘It will be such a comfort.’

‘I am sure you are very good,’ said Grace.

’And mamma is so glad.  From the moment that we both talked ourselves into eagerness about it—­while I was writing my letter, you know, we resolved that it must be so.’

‘I’m afraid I shall be a great trouble to Mrs Dale.’

’A trouble to mamma!  Indeed you will not.  You shall be a trouble to no one but me.  I will have all the trouble myself, and the labour I delight in shall be physic to my pain.’

Grace Crawley could not during the journey be at home and at ease even with her friend Lily.  She was going to a strange house under strange circumstances.  Her father had not indeed been tried and found guilty of theft, but the charge of theft had been made against him, and the magistrates before whom it had been made had thought the charge was true.  Grace knew all the newspapers had told the story, and was of course aware that Mrs Dale would have heard it.  Her own mind was full of it, and though she dreaded to speak