me to present myself early in the day,
so that Rachel and I might have some quiet hours during which to renew
our acquaintance before we should be called upon to mix among the
company now staying at the Hall. Good Mrs. Hill was one of those people
whose manner would make you believe that if you deny them the thing they
desire at your hands, you will undoubtedly destroy their peace, but who
will probably have forgotten their request and its motive whilst you are
yet pondering it, and forcing your own will that it may be complied
with. The mistake about the hour of my arrival was one of those pieces
of confusion which seem too trifling ever to be worth clearing up. But
it was a mistake which caused me months of unutterable misery.

The idea of the visit had always been distasteful to me; but, having
made up my mind to go, I thought it was better to be amiable for John's
sake. About mid-day I said good-bye to the three who were already my
mother and sisters, and set out to walk across the moor to the Hall.
John was to dine with the Hills that day, so I knew I should see him in
the evening. My baggage had been sent on before me early in the morning.
It seemed very absurd to feel so sorry at leaving home to stay at a fine
house, where the hours were to be filled with feasting and merry-making.
In earlier days it would have been otherwise. But the farm, with its
busy inmates, its old-fashioned nooks and corners, its homely sights and
sounds, had grown strangely sufficient for the desires of my life.

I arrived at the Hall, gaining the grounds by a descent from the hill at
their back, and coming, so, round by the gardens to the house. Mrs. Hill
was driving with some of her guests. Mr. Hill was out walking with some
of his guests. A maid would go and seek for Miss Leonard, and in the
meantime I was conducted to my room.

Such a room as it was. I smiled at myself for thinking it so grand, for
I had certainly slept in as fine a chamber before. But of late I had
forgotten how long is wealth's list of necessities, and had learned to
live without a velvet couch at the fireside of my sleeping apartment,
branches of wax-candles on the mantel, and long mirrors on every side to
make me feel as if half a dozen impertinent young women were for ever
prying into, and making a mockery of, my movements. I had lately been
accustomed to hear the heels of my shoes go clinking over the well-waxed
boards of my simple room, and to look out at the