paving of the way to something vaguely, but superbly,
independent. Nor was promotion long in coming. At two-and-twenty May
accepted a secretaryship to a lady with a mission--concerning the rights of
womanhood. In letters to her father and mother she spoke much of the
importance of her work, but did not confess how very modest was her salary.
A couple of years went by without her visiting the old home; then, of a
sudden, she made known her intention of coming to stay at the lodge 'for a
week or ten days.' She explained that her purpose was rest; intellectual
strain had begun rather to tell upon her, and a few days of absolute
tranquillity, such as she might expect under the elms of Brent Hall, would
do her all the good in the world. 'Of course,' she added, 'it's unnecessary
to say anything about me to the Shale people. They and I have nothing in
common, and it will be better for us to ignore each other's existence.'

These characteristic phrases troubled Mr. and Mrs. Rockett. That the family
at the Hall should, if it seemed good to them, ignore the existence of May
was, in the Rocketts' view, reasonable enough; but for May to ignore Sir
Edwin and Lady Shale, who were just now in residence after six months spent
abroad, struck them as a very grave impropriety. Natural respect demanded
that, at some fitting moment, and in a suitable manner, their daughter
should present herself to her feudal superiors, to whom she was assuredly
indebted, though indirectly, for 'the blessings she enjoyed.' This was Mrs.
Rockett's phrase, and the rheumatic, wheezy old gardener uttered the same
opinion in less conventional language. They had no affection for Sir Edwin
or his lady, and Miss Hilda they decidedly disliked; their treatment at the
hands of these new people contrasted unpleasantly enough with the memory of
old times; but a spirit of loyal subordination ruled their blood, and, to
Sir Edwin at all events, they felt gratitude for their retention at the
lodge. Mrs. Rockett was a healthy and capable woman of not more than fifty,
but no less than her invalid husband would she have dreaded the thought of
turning her back on Brent Hall. Rockett had often consoled himself with the
thought that here he should die, here amid the fine old trees that he
loved, in the ivy-covered house which was his only idea of home. And was it
not a reasonable hope that Betsy, good steady girl, should some day marry
the promising young gardener whom Sir Edwin had