retting her hasty action in the railway carriage. Before reaching
Copthorne she had hidden the fragments safely in a corner of her
dressing-bag. She hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry that Philip is
coming. It will break the dull monotony of the day. At any rate she
will get herself up to look as much like the old Eleanor as possible,
though the thought of wandering with him through the haunts of past days
is distasteful.

She knows it will please him, however; so, crushing her own feelings, she
dons an old dress made by the village dressmaker, one which has hung in
her wardrobe ever since she left home, then proceeds to search for the
long disused sun bonnet.

The day is almost bright enough to excuse the picturesque headgear,
eventually unearthed from the bottom of a tin trunk, and ironed by
Eleanor's own hands.

She feels as if she were dressed up for amateur theatricals, and even
denies herself the fashionable manner in which her hair is now arranged,
going back to the simple style before she knew London or Giddy Mounteagle.

"It certainly _is_ becoming," she says; "beauty unadorned," viewing her
charms in this rustic guise before a cracked mirror. "Yet I wonder what
the Richmond girls would think of me if I walked on the Terrace, Sunday
morning after church, dressed like this?"

She looks so pretty that her heart sinks at the thought that it is
Philip, not Carol, for whom she has prepared.

As she comes down the stairs Mrs. Grebby meets her pale and trembling.

"What is the matter, mammy?" asks Eleanor, seeing that her mother is
trying to gain breath for speech.

Mrs. Grebby puts her hand to her heart.

"There, there, child!" she says, "don't be frightened," while her legs
seem sinking under her, and she grasps Eleanor's arm for support. "But
the man from the post-office, 'e--e's brought a telegram for you."

"Anything wrong at home?" asks Mrs. Roche.

"Not that I know of--_yet_," continues the shaking woman; "it hasn't been
opened."

Eleanor bursts out laughing, and the amused peal reassures Mrs. Grebby.

"Why, Ma, I get them nearly every day at Richmond, there is nothing to be
alarmed at in a wire. Philip was going to let me know his train. I
thought I told you."

She opens the message, and as she scans it her face falls.

"He is not coming," she says. "Too busy, and won't be able to manage it
now. How like Philip! To let you get all ready for him and then fail."

It is more the