The friendships that grew up out of sight were far more effective than anything that Lady Conway could accomplish on the stage.  Miss King and the Miss Faithfulls found each other out at once, and the governess was entreated to knock at the door at the bottom of the stairs whenever her pupils could spare her.

Then came eager wishes from her pupils to be admitted to the snuggery, and they were invited to see the curiosities.  Isabel believed the ‘very good’ was found, and came with her sisters.  She begged to be allowed to help in their parish work, under Miss Mercy Faithfull’s guidance; and Sir Roland stood still, while she fancied she was learning to make little frocks, but really listening to their revelations of so new a world.  She went out with Miss Mercy—­she undertook a class and a district, and began to be happier than ever before; though how much of the absolute harder toil devolved on Miss King, neither she nor the governess understood.

This led to intercourse with Mary Ponsonby; and Isabel was a very different person in that homely, friendly parlour, from the lofty, frigid Miss Conway of the drawing-room.  Cold hauteur melted before Mary’s frank simplicity, and they became friends as fast as two ladies could beyond the age of romantic plunges, where on one side there was good-will without enthusiasm, on the other enthusiasm and reserve.  They called each other ‘Miss Conway’ and ‘Miss Ponsonby,’ and exchanged no family secrets; but they were, for all that, faster friends than young ladies under twenty might imagine.

One winter’s day, the crisp, exhilarating frost had lured them far along the high road beyond Mr. Calcott’s park palings, talking over Isabel’s favourite theme, what to wish for her little brother, when the sound of a large clock striking three made Isabel ask where she was.

‘It was the stable clock at Ormersfield,’ said Mary, ’did you not know we were on that road?’

‘No, I did not.’  And Isabel would have turned, but Mary begged her to take a few steps up the lane, that they might see how Lord Fitzjocelyn’s new cottages looked.  Isabel complied, and added, after a pause, ‘Are you one of Lord Fitzjocelyn’s worshippers?’

‘I should not like to worship any one,’ said Mary, looking straightforward.  ’I am very fond of him, because I have known him all my life.  And he is so good!’

’Then I think I may consider you exempt!  It is the only fault I have to find with Northwold.  You are the only person who does not rave about him—­the only person who has not mentioned his name.’

‘Have I not?  I think that was very unkind of me—­’

‘Very kind to me,’ said Isabel.

‘I meant, to him,’ said Mary, blushing; ’if you thought that I did not think most highly of him—­’

’Don’t go on!  I was just going to trust to you for a calm, dispassionate statement of his merits, and I shall soon lose all my faith in you.’