Bundlecombe. "You remember that Miss Campion had a Thorley girl at Maple
Cottage, who left her five or six months ago?"

"I remember your telling me so--Milly, she used to be called?"

"Yes, Emily Harrington. That is the girl, without a doubt. Her
grandmother lives over yonder; but I never knew that she was expecting a
visit from this fine lady. Only last week she was telling me that she
had not heard from Milly for several months. There was a letter from her
before Christmas, to say that she was married and traveling abroad."

Mrs. Bundlecombe shook her head dubiously from side to side, and
continued the motion for some time. She was thinking how much money it
would have taken to buy that sealskin cloak; but, however far her doubts
may have carried her, she did not give utterance to them in words.

"She is certainly very nice-looking," said Alan. "And she seems to be
getting on in the world. Perhaps she has made a good marriage; I should
not at all wonder."

"Well, it is charitable to hope so," said Aunt Bessy, with an expression
in her face that was anything but hopeful. "I can't forgive her for
leaving Miss Campion in such a hurry. I suppose she wanted to better
herself, as those minxes always say. As if anyone could be better off
than living with _her_!"

Alan turned round to the window again, and looked out. His aunt's words
touched a chord in his heart, which vibrated strongly. To live with her,
in any capacity whatever--assuredly that would be the highest attainable
good. To draw from her gentle presence that bliss of absolute rest and
ease which he had never known until he came to know her--to talk and
listen without a shadow of reserve, forgetting self, unashamed of any
inferiority which his mind might show in comparison with hers, unafraid
of giving offense to that sweet and well-poised nature--to look upon her
face, almost infantile in its ingenuous expression, yet with indomitable
strength in the clear grey eyes which revealed the soul within--to live
with her would indeed be perfect happiness!

And the more he felt this, the less hopeful he was of realizing his
aspiration. She had been ill, at the point of death, and he could not be
near her. He had inquired of her progress at the Grahams' house, but
always in fear lest he should bring sorrow to her, or annoyance to them.
The creature whom he had made his wife was never absent from his
thoughts. In his most despondent moments he ceased to believe tha