er most
casual manner.

The subject seemed to her of infinitesimal importance; but Darsie went
through many agitations of mind before she decided on a high-necked
summer frock, and then suffered still keener pangs because, on
descending to Hall, several Freshers were discovered in full evening
dress, and, in her imagination at least, eyed her lace yoke with
disdain.

Dinner was almost as silent as tea--an ordeal of curious, appraising
eyes, as each Fresher continued to stare at every other Fresher,
condemning her mentally for want of frankness and kindliness, while
utterly neglecting to practise these virtues on her own account. Then
one by one the girls slunk upstairs, tired, shy, and homesick, and crept
gratefully into their narrow beds.

Sleep was long in coming to Darsie Garnett that night: she lay awake
hour after hour, living over again in thought the events of the last
three years.

First and foremost her thoughts went back to the old great-aunt to whose
generosity she owed the present fulfilment of her ambition. Until Lady
Hayes's death, a year ago, Darsie had spent the major part of her
holidays at The Towers, and the friendship between the old woman and the
girl had developed into a very real affection.

It had been a wonderful experience, Darsie reflected, to watch the
gradual mellowing of character, the patient endurance of suffering, the
peaceful death which was so truly a "falling asleep." Until that time
Darsie had felt all a girl's natural shrinking from death, but the sight
of Aunt Maria's peaceful face had dissipated that fear once for all. As
she knelt by the bedside looking at the still, majestic features, she
offered the most fervent prayer of her life--a prayer that she, too,
might be enabled to "submit her way," and so in the end find peace in
her soul!

Her acquaintance with the Percival family had ripened into friendship,
so that, though Noreen and Ida could never by any chance supplant the
Vernon sisters, there were moments when she actually felt more at home
with Ralph than with queer, silent Dan.

Ralph, at twenty-one, had outgrown many of his boyish failings--or
rather, as Darsie shrewdly surmised, had attained the art of screening
them from _view_. Instead of snubbing his sisters' friends and adopting
airs of haughty superiority, he was now all deference and attention,
transparently eager for her society. Dan, on the contrary, was absorbed
in work; he had taken the Longs in