at the academy,"
declared Miss Nippett.

Mavis, as she looked at the eager, pinched face, could well believe
that she was speaking the truth.

"I shall buy you a bottle of port wine," said Mavis.

"What say?"

Mavis repeated her words.

"Oh, I say! Fancy me 'avin' port wine! I once 'ad a glass; it did make
me feel 'appy."

Two days later, in accordance with the contents of a letter she had
received from Mrs Farthing, Mavis met the train at Paddington that was
to bring her dear Jill from Melkbridge. She discovered her friend
huddled in a corner of the guard's van; her grief was piteous to
behold, her eyes being full of tears, which the kindly attentions of
the guard had not dissipated. Directly she saw her mistress, Jill
uttered a cry that was almost human in its gladness, and tried to jump
into Mavis' arms.

When Jill was released, Mavis hugged her in her arms, careless of the
attention her devotion attracted.

With her friend restored to her, that evening was the happiest she had
spent for some time.

For many succeeding weeks, Mavis passed her mornings with Jill, or Miss
Nippett, or both; and most of her afternoons and all of her evenings at
the academy. The long hours, together with the monotonous nature of the
work, greatly taxed her energies, lessened as these were by the
physical stress through which she was passing.

She obtained infrequent distraction from the peculiarities of the
pupils. One, in particular, who was a fat Jewess, named Miss Hyman,
greatly amused her. This person was desperately anxious to learn
waltzing, but was handicapped by bandy legs. As she spun round and
round the room with Mr Poulter, or any other partner, she would close
her eyes and continually repeat aloud, "One, two, three; one, two,
three," the while her feet kept step with the music.

Otherwise, her days were mostly drab-coloured, the only thing that at
all kept up her spirits being her untiring faith in Perigal--a faith
which, in time, became a mechanical action of mind. Strive as she might
to quell rebellious thoughts, now and again she would rage soul and
body at the web that fate, or Providence, had spun about her life. At
these times, it hurt her to the quick to think that, instead of being
the wife she deserved to be, she was in her present unprotected
condition, with all its infinite possibilities of disaster. Again and
again the thought would recur to her that she might have been
Windebank's wife at any time