harm in that. But more than that--he wants me
to look nice, for myself. He thinks me still a little shy--though I
never was shy, was I?--and he thinks nothing gives you courage like
feeling yourself well dressed--but he takes the greatest interest in
everything I wear."

"And where do you go after Goodwood, Elinor?"

"Oh, mamma, on such a round of visits!--here and there and everywhere. I
don't know," and the tears sprang into Elinor's eyes, "when I may see
you again."

"You are not coming back to London," said the mother, with the heart
sinking in her breast.

"Not now--they all say London is insupportable--it is one of the things
that everybody says, and I believe that Phil will not set foot in it
again for many months. Perhaps I might get a moment, when he is
shooting, or something, to run back to you; but it is a long way from
Scotland--and he must be there, you know, for the 12th. He would think
the world was coming to an end if he did not get a shot at the grouse
on that day."

"But I thought he was looking for an appointment, Elinor?"

A cloud passed over Elinor's face. "The season is over," she said, "and
all the opportunities are exhausted--and we don't speak of that any
more."

She gave her mother a very close hug at the railway, and sat with her
head partly out of the window watching her as she stood on the platform,
until the train turned round the corner. No relief on her dear face now,
but an anxious strain in her eyes to see her mother as long as possible.
Mrs. Dennistoun, as she walked again slowly up the hills that the pony
might not suffer, said to herself, with a chill at her heart, that she
would rather have seen her child sinking back in the corner, pleased
that it was over, as on the first day.

CHAPTER XIX.

The next winter was more dreary still and solitary than the first at
Windyhill. The first had been, though it looked so long and dreary as it
passed, full of hope of the coming summer, which must, it seemed, bring
Elinor back. But now Mrs. Dennistoun knew exactly what Elinor's coming
back meant, and the prospect was less cheering. Three days in the whole
long season--three little escapades, giving so very little hope of more
sustained intercourse to come. Mrs. Dennistoun, going over all the
circumstances--she had so little else to do but to go over them in her
long solitary evenings--came to the conclusion that whatever might
happen, she herself would go to town when summer