looks of their own, our limbs grow
quiet, and our brains begin to work. The moors beyond the window take
strange expressions in the twilight, and fold mysteries into their
hollows with the shadows of the night. The maids in the kitchen sing
wild ballads to one another round the ingle; and when one of us young
folks threads the rambling passages above to fetch a stray thimble from
one of the lavender-scented bed-rooms, she comes back flying down the
great hollow staircase as if a troop of ghosts were at her heels. It is
the time to enjoy a story, a true story, the story of a real life; and
here it is, as our dear old lady is telling it to us.

* * * * *

When I first learned, my children, that I was the ward of my mother's
early friend, Mrs. Hollingford, and was to live under her roof after my
departure from school, I little thought that a place like Hillsbro' Farm
was ever likely to be my home. I was a conceited young person, and fond
of giving myself airs. My father was colonel of his regiment, and I
thought I had a right to look down on Lydia Brown, whose father was in
business, though she wore velvet three inches deep upon her frocks,
while mine had no better trimming than worsted braid. I had spent all my
life at school, from the day when my father and mother kissed me for the
last time in Miss Sweetman's parlour. I remember yet my pretty mother's
pale tearful face as she looked back at me through the carriage window,
and my own paroxysm of despairing tears on the mat when the door was
shut. After that I had a pleasant enough life of it. I was a favourite
at school, having a disposition to make myself and others as happy as I
could. I required a good deal of snubbing, but when properly kept down I
believe I was not a disagreeable girl.

My Indian letters generally contained some bit of news to amuse or
interest my companions, and now and again captain, or ensign somebody,
home upon sick leave, called and presented himself in Miss Sweetman's
parlour, with curious presents for me, my mistresses, or favourite
companions. I remember well the day when Major Guthrie arrived with the
box of stuffed birds. Miss Kitty Sweetman, our youngest and best-loved
mistress, was sent on before me to speak civilly to the gentleman in the
parlour, and announce my coming. Miss Kitty was the drudge of the
school, the sweetest-tempered drudge in the world. She was not so well
informed as her elder sisters,