Milly Darrell and Other Tales

end of January-cold, clear, bright weather-when we set out early one afternoon for a ramble in our favourite wood, Milly furnished with pencils and sketch-book, in order to jot down any stri

ll slowly. These were speedily succeeded by a pelting storm of rain and hail, and we felt that we were caught, and must be drenched to the skin before we could

per off as fast as

to Cumber, and wait in the village till the weather c

thing as a fly at Cumber, I should think, small as the p

going back through the woo

with the rain pelting down upon us, a figure came towards us from among the leafless trees-the figure of a man, a gentleman, as we could see by his dress and be

ckly, lifting his ha

he said, 'and without umbrellas

as far as Thornlei

r. Will you come into the Priory

thought of that. I know the housekeeper very w

rtunity of looking at him under that pelting rain, but I was wondering all the

es stood open,

d the stranger. 'Dismal enough, without t

de for us to pass in before him. There was a fire burning in the wide old-fa

be dried,' said the stranger, ringing a bell; and I think we both be

w that the Priory was occupied except by the old servants. I fear you must have th

at you should find ref

he hearth, and begged us to sit there; but Milly preferred st

about us at home,' she said, '

of the ownership of a dog-cart, if you would not be afraid of driving in such a bar

laughe

d am not at all afraid of driving in a dog-cart. I use

ave the pleasure of driving you to Thorn

this, and made some excuse about no

well; don't you, Mary?' she said; and I

man remonstrated. 'I shall be quite offended if you refuse the use of my dog-cart,

lls the old housekeeper, who carried them off to be dried in the kitchen, an

ow opposite to him. I had no difficulty in recognising the original of that portrait which Augusta Darrell had looked at so strangely. He was much older than when the port

s, a thick fierce-looking moustache shrouded the mouth, but could not quite conceal an expression, half cynical, half melancholy,

n might be under the influence of an unpardonable wrong. Like Mrs. Darrell, I was inclined to place myself on the side of the u

Mr. Egerton leaning against the mantelpiece, watching the rain with an absent look in his face

ll spin you over to Thornleigh in no time; so you mustn't

'My name is Darrell, an

y very dea

ognition of thi

I was a lad, and I have a vague recollection of a small child in white frock, who, I think, must have been

Milly answered, 'w

e of the many changes that have come

rned for good,

rs, that is a matter of supreme uncertainty. I never am in the same mind very long together. But I am heartily sick of knocki

wing tired of such a place

ughts-knowing himself by heart, and finding the lesson a dreary one? Perhaps not. A girl's life seems all brightness. What should such happy young creatures know of that arid w

eemed half groom, half gardener; and Mr. Egerton drove us home; Milly sitting next him, I at the back. His horse was very good

man; but in spite of that sweeping condemnation I could n

blighted life in a pitying kind of way, and to blame his mother's conduct, little as we knew of the details of the story. Our existences