agging creatures in Christendom," she said to
herself; "for my part I can't understand anyone going into raptures over
them. For one nice child there are twenty disagreeable ones. I have
nothing to say against Babs, of course; but Judy, she is about the most
spoilt creature I ever came across, and of course it is all Hilda's
fault. I must speak to Mr. Merton, I really must, if this goes on. Hilda
and Judy ought to be parted, but of course Hilda won't leave home
unless, unless--ah, I wonder if there is _any_ chance of that. Too good
news to be true. Too good luck for Mr. Quentyns anyhow. I shouldn't be
surprised if he is trying to get Hilda all this time, but--he is
scarcely likely to succeed. Poor Judy! what a blow anything of that kind
would be to her; but of course there is not the least chance of it."

Miss Mills took off her hat as she spoke, and allowed the summer air to
play with her somewhat thin fringe and to cool her heated cheeks.

"I hate children," she soliloquized. "I did hope that my time of
servitude was nearly over, but when men prove so unfaithful!" Here a
very angry gleam flashed out of her eyes; she put her hand into her
pocket, and taking out a letter, read it slowly and carefully. Her
expression was not pleasant while she perused the words on the closely
written page.

She had just returned the letter to its envelope when a gay voice
sounded in her ears. A girl was seen walking across the field and
approaching the stile. She was a fair-haired, pretty girl, dressed in
the height of the fashion. She had a merry laugh, and a merry voice, and
two very bright blue eyes.

"How do you do, Miss Mills?" she called to her. "I am going to see
Hilda. Can you tell me if she is at home?"

"How do you do, Miss Anstruther?" replied Miss Mills; "I did not know
you had returned."

"Yes, we all came home yesterday. I am longing to see Hilda, I have such
heaps of things to tell her. Is she at the Rectory?"

"At the present moment she is very busily employed trying to train the
most unmelodious choir in Great Britain," replied Miss Mills. "The
Harvest Festival takes place on Sunday, and in consequence she has more
than usual to do."

"Ah, you need not tell me; I am not going to venture within sound of
that choir. I shall go down to the Rectory and wait until her duties are
ended. There is not the least hurry. Good-by, Miss Mills. Are the
children well?"

"You can see for yourself," replied Miss Mills; "they a