by the donation; but he never took his eyes from Milly
Darrell's face. That bright lovely face seemed to exercise a kind of
fascination upon him.

'Don't you think Peter would be better if you were to give him a
little more air and sunshine, Mrs. Thatcher?' Milly asked presently;
'that bedroom seems rather a dark close place.'

'He needn't be there unless he likes,' Mrs. Thatcher answered
indifferently. 'He sits out of doors whenever he chooses.'

'Then I should always sit out-of-doors on fine days, if I were you,
Peter,' said Milly.

After this she talked a little to Mrs. Thatcher, who was by no means
a sympathetic person, while I sat looking on, and contemplating the
old woman with a feeling that was the reverse of admiration.

She was of a short squat figure, with broad shoulders and no throat
to speak of, and her head seemed too big for her body. Her face was
long and thin, with large features, and a frame of scanty gray hair,
among which a sandy tinge still lingered here and there; her eyes
were of an ugly reddish-brown, and had, I thought, a most sinister
expression. I must have been very ill, and sorely at a loss for a
doctor, before I could have been induced to trust my health to the
care of Mrs. Rebecca Thatcher.

I told Milly as much while we were walking homewards, and she
admitted that Rebecca Thatcher was no favourite even among the
country people, who believed implicitly in her skill.

'I'm afraid she tells fortunes, and dabbles in all sorts of
superstitious tricks,' Milly added gravely; 'but she is so artful,
there is no way of finding her out in that kind of business. The
foolish country girls who consult her always keep her secret, and
she manages to put on a fair face before our rector and his curate,
who believe her to be a respectable woman.'

The days and weeks slipped by very pleasantly at Thornleigh, and the
end of those bright midsummer holidays came only too soon. It seemed
a bitter thing to say 'good-bye' to Milly Darrell, and to go back
alone to a place which must needs be doubly dull and dreary to me
without her. She had been my only friend at Albury Lodge; loving her
as I did, I had never cared to form any other friendship.

The dreaded day came at last--dreaded I know by both of us; and I
said 'good-bye' to my darling so quietly, that I am sure none could
have guessed the grief I felt in this parting. Mrs. Darrell was very
kind and gracious on this occasion, begging that I wou