ogether, "What
relation is she to the Hills?"

"None whatever," said Grace; "only an adopted daughter. There is some
romantic story about her, I believe. She went to Mrs. Hill as a
companion first. The Hills, who are the most eccentric old couple in the
world, took a violent fancy to her, and adopted her for their own. I
believe she is an orphan of a very good family. They keep up a wonderful
fuss about her; and people say they have made her their heiress."

"I wonder why she looked so strangely at the mention of the
Hollingfords?" I said musingly.

"My dear Margery," said Grace, shaking her head, "I give you up. You are
perfectly insane on the subject of the Hollingfords. What will you
imagine next?"

"I do not think I imagined it," said I. "I am sure that she turned as
white as your cloak."

"Well, well," said Grace, "there may be some deep mystery for all I
know. Miss Leonard may, like yourself, have a taste for agriculture; or
may have known young Mr. Hollingford before he turned ploughman. I
advise you to think about it. You have materials for a pretty romance to
take into exile with you."

And I did think about it long afterwards.

CHAPTER II.

My children, you must remember that I am speaking of an old-fashioned
time, and I travelled down to Hillsbro' by coach. The promenade of a
fashionable watering-place had hitherto been my idea of the country.
Imagine, then, how my hungry eyes devoured the new beauties presented to
them. I had provided myself with a book, and I had hoped to fall asleep
over it, yet here I was with my eyes riveted to a pane of glass, afraid
to wink lest I should miss something. Grace's warning, "You will fret
yourself to death, you will be back before a month," grew faint in my
ears. When night shut out my new world and I fell asleep, I dreamed of
extraordinary phenomena--trees stalking about the plains, fairies
leaping out of the foam of the rivers.

I opened my eyes to a rose-coloured dawn. We had stopped before a little
village inn. A row of pigeons with burnished necks looked down on me
from their perch on the signboard above the door; a half-dressed,
curly-headed child peeped out of a window from under the eaves, and
clapped his hands at the steaming horses: and a young man walked out of
the inn with a whip in his hand, and asked if there might be a lady
inside the coach whose destination was Hillsbro' Farm.

I was soon seated by his side in a gig. By a few careful gl