re dated all the letters addressed by
Mrs. Hollingford to me since the time when she had become my guardian.

I did not go to Hillsbro' Farm in any unfair state of ignorance as to
the present worldly position of its owners. Grace Tyrrell (my
school-fellow) was careful to let me know the depth of the degradation
to which these friends of an old time had fallen from their once high
estate; also to make me aware of the estimation in which they were held
by the people of her world. The idea of my going to Hillsbro' was
ridiculed till I got angry, but not ashamed.

"Those poor Hollingfords!" said one lady. "I am sure it is very kind of
you, Miss Dacre, to pay them a visit; but _live_ with them, my
dear!--you could not think of identifying yourself with such people. Are
you aware that the father ruined numbers of people, absconded with his
pockets full of money, and never was heard of since?"

"Yes," said I; "but I have nothing to do with Mr. Hollingford. And I
daresay if his wife had taken ill-gotten riches down to Hillsbro' with
her, the police would have followed her before this; for she gives her
address quite openly."

I afterwards heard this lady telling Grace that her friend was a very
pert young woman. I did not mind, for, through fighting Mrs.
Hollingford's battles, I had come to think that I loved her memory; and
I tried to do so for my mother's sake.

"It is not at all necessary to live with a guardian," said Grace. "They
say Mrs. Hollingford makes butter and sells it; and Frederick says the
son is a mere ploughman. He is Mr. Hill's agent; Frederick met him by
chance, quite lately, when he was shooting at Hillsbro'."

"Agent, is he?" said I, mischievously. "Then I should think he must at
least know how to read and write. Come, that is not so bad!"

"You will get the worst of it, Grace," said Frederick Tyrrell, who was
listening. "Lucky fellow, Hollingford, to have such a champion!"

So here I had better explain to you, my dears, that Captain Tyrrell was,
even at this time, what old-fashioned people used to call a great _beau_
of mine; that he was fond of dangling about my skirts and picking up my
fan. Nothing more on this subject is necessary here. If you desire to
know what he is like, I refer you to an old water-colour sketch of a
weak-faced, washed-out-looking young man, with handsome features, and a
high-collared coat, which you will find in an old portfolio upstairs, on
the top shelf of the wardrobe, i