Mrs. Parke went home with a little excitement in her mind, caused by the sight of this friend of her youth. The familiar form brought back still more distinctly all that was past and its extraordinary contrast with all that was present. Mary Hill in the clothes that she must have been wearing all this long time (“I am sure I know that frock,” Letitia said to herself), afforded the most perfect example of all the difference that had arisen in her own life. But this was not her only thought. Perhaps her mind was moved by a little touch of old kindness. Such darts of light will come through the most opaque blanks of a self-regarding life. Letitia was very practical, and it seemed to her that to keep two women like Mary and Anne Hill in the depths of the country with nothing to do but to take care of the vicar and the aviary, which one could do amply, while she herself stood much in need of a companion and help, was the greatest waste of material possible. Her active mind leaped in a moment to all the advantages of such a visitor in the house as Mary Hill, an old friend with whom it would not be necessary to stand on ceremony, who could be sent about whenever there was need for her, who would look after the children, and “do” the flowers and make herself useful. And what an advantage it would be to her. She would see the world; she could make acquaintance with the best society. She might perhaps meet some one; some old clergyman or family doctor who would make her an offer. The idea took possession of Letitia. It would be such a good thing. She spoke of it to John when they met at luncheon. “Should you mind if I asked an old friend to pay us a long visit,” she said.

“I—— mind? I never interfere with your visitors,” said John, surprised. He added, however, with a little surprise when he thought of it: “I never knew you cared for old friends.”

“They are generally a bore,” said Mrs. Parke; “they remind you of things you want to forget and people you hate. But not this one. It is Mary Hill. She is the vicar’s daughter at Grocombe. Poor people, they are very poor. It will be a kindness to them. A mouth to feed in such a house is a great matter.”

“It is very kind of you, Letitia, to think of it.”

“Oh, as for that! and she would be so useful to me. I do feel sometimes the burden of all I have to do—the housekeeping—to make a good show on such a limited income, and to keep up one’s social duties; and then the children always wanting something. I don’t know how I have borne it so long without any help.”

“But I don’t see,” said John, “how having a friend in the house would mend that.”

“No,” said Letitia with a sigh; “I did not expect you to see it. But so long as I see it!—all I want is to make sure that you won’t go on as so many men do. ‘How long is that Miss Hill going to stay? I can never say a word to you without that Miss Hill hearing everything! Is that Miss Hill to be always here?’ Now you must have heard men going on just so, making their wives’ lives a burden.”

“I hope I shall never do that,” said John, mildly.

“Mind you don’t,” said Letitia. And that was all that was said. But when Miss Hill came next morning with a pretty flush of pleasure on her face, and her grey dress looking so prim and old-maidish, and everything about her showing a life arrested just at the point where Letitia had left her—Letitia who had made so much progress—Mrs. Parke’s resolution became firmer than ever. She showed her visitor all over the house, apologizing for its small size and imperfections. “We must put up with many things,” she said, “in our present circumstances, you know. Frogmore is very nice to us, but so long as he lives we can only have the second place.”

“I wish I had only a hundred times as much to put up with,” said Mary, smiling. “It all looks very delightful to me.”

“You should see Greenpark,” said Letitia. “We have a great deal more room there. But we are only in town for a short season, and, of course, I don’t bring all the children. Yes, baby is just about ten months. They are all troublesome children. They give me a great deal to do. I often think I shall die of it if it goes on long. And there you are, Mary, a lady of leisure at home with next to nothing to do.”

Mary’s countenance changed. “I have more than you think,” she said, “but not in your way.”

“Oh, no, not in my way. When you are not married you can form no idea of the troubles one has. But I do wonder you should stay at home when there is so little for you all. Your poor mother must grudge it so. Two daughters to feed and clothe and no likelihood of any change.”

“Oh, Tishy, it is cruel to tell me so! Don’t I feel it to the bottom of my heart.”

“Don’t call me by that horrible name. If I was you I should certainly do something for myself. Who were the two—— whom you were with at the exhibition?”

“It was my aunt—— and a friend of mine. They live together,” said Mary.

“You should go and live with them,” said Letitia, boldly.

Mary shook her head. “My aunt is as poor as we are at home. She has asked me for a short visit, that is all she can do. But please Tis—— I mean Letitia, don’t make me wretched to-day. I want to get a little pleasure out of this day.”

“If I make you wretched it is for your good,” said Letitia. “If you have only come for a short visit it is not worth your while. Your railway fare would cost you more than all the relief it would be at home.”

“They were glad I should have the change,” said Mary, “but I’m afraid what you say is true, and it was perhaps selfish to come.”

“I should say it was very selfish to come if it’s only for a short visit. But you are dreadfully thoughtless people about money and always were. If I did not count up everything and calculate whether it was worth while, I don’t know what I should do. Now getting to town and back again from Yorkshire must have cost you two pounds at least, even second class——”

“I came third class,” said Mary, much downcast.

“But I am sure it cost you two pounds—why there must have been a cab from the station, and there will be a cab back again to the station, and I should not at all wonder if you gave the porter sixpence, though probably he is much better off than you are. And how long are you to stay with your aunt?”

“A fortnight,” said Mary almost inaudibly, hanging her head.

“A fortnight! You don’t imagine it can cost your father and mother a pound a week to keep you at home? Ten shillings is the very outside I should say. Well, then, you have thrown away a whole pound on this visit, and probably you got a new frock for it, or a bonnet or something. Oh, that is not the way to get on in the world! At this rate you will always be poor——”

“They were very glad I should have the change,” said Mary, pale but plucking up a little courage. “They don’t count up every penny like that. Oh, Ti—Letitia, I am sure you mean to be kind; but when you put things before one like that it is like flaying one alive! For what can I do? I can’t be a governess, and there is nothing else that I can be——”

“You might have married,” said Letitia, “if you had played your cards as you ought.”

At this Mary gave her friend a startled glance and grew very red, but then turned away her head and said nothing. Letitia saw and understood, but took no notice. She went on—

“You might have married old Captain Taylor when he came home from abroad. And what a nice house he had, and plenty of money, and only think how comfortable you might have been. But you just threw him into Cecilia Foster’s hands—I don’t mean to reproach you, Mary; but it is all the same sort of thing. You never calculate beforehand—now how are you to make up that pound?”

Letitia said these words with the greatest deliberation and emphasis, looking her friend almost sternly in the face. And to poor Mary a pound was no small matter. She had never thought of it before in this light, and an almost hysterical constriction came into her throat. Make up a pound! It is but a small sum of money, but she did not know how to do it any more than she knew how to fly.

When Letitia had thus brought her friend down to the very earth, she suddenly made a rush at her and gave her a little dab of a kiss. “I will tell you, you dear old thing,” she said; “you shall come and pay a long visit to me.”

“Tishy! I mean Letitia, oh what do you mean?” said Mary in her surprise.

Letitia threatened her with a forefinger. “I will kill you if you call me that again! What do I mean? I mean just what I say. You shall come and pay me a long, long visit—as long as you like—as long as—you live—or let’s say till you are married,” cried Mrs. Parke with a somewhat mocking laugh.

“You know very well I shall never marry,” said Mary, reproachfully.

“Well, never mind—wait till you have seen all the people at Greenpark. You shall come to me as soon as you have done your fortnight with your aunt, and you shall go down with us when we go to the country, and you will keep me company when John is away, and talk to me when I am lonely, and make friends with the children. That will be worth your while, not like a fortnight in London, where you must always be spending shillings and sixpences. Now is it settled, or must you write home and ask if you may come? For it is a real long visit I shall want.”

“Oh, Letitia,” said Mary, with tears in her eyes, “is it possible you can be so very, very kind, when we have not met for years, and when I thought——”

“What did you think? That I had forgotten my old friends? I am one that never, never forgets,” said Mrs. Parke. “The first moment that I set eyes upon you I said to myself, ‘It’s Mary! and she must come to me for a long, long visit.’ I can see no use in asking people for a fortnight. It only costs money, and it is not a bit of relief at home.”

“I am sure you are quite right,” said Mary. “I have been thinking so myself; but then they all thought it would be a change, and though I am fonder of Grocombe than of any place in the world——”

“You are a hypocrite, Mary,” said Letitia. “I never was fond of Grocombe at all. It is the dullest place in England—there is never anything going on. Oh, here is Mr. Parke, whom you don’t know yet. John, this is Miss Hill, who is coming to us for a long visit. I told you what a dear friend she was of mine.”

“How do you do, Miss Hill,” said John, and then he added, the only thing it occurred to him to say to a stranger, “What fine weather we are having. Have you been in the Park to-day?”

This was how it came about that Mary Hill became an inmate of Greenpark. She paid Letitia a long—very long—visit, so long that it looked as if it never would end. Mrs. Parke stood on no ceremony at all with her friend. She confided her children to her with as much freedom as if she had been the nursery governess. She suggested to her that her place was wanted at table when there was a dinner party, and her room when the house was very full for the shooting. She made use of her to interview the housekeeper, and to write the menus for dinner. Mary soon came to occupy the position which is sacred to the poor relation—the unsalaried dependent in a house. She sometimes replaced the mistress of the house, sometimes the nurse, sometimes the lady’s maid. She was always at hand and ready whatever was wanted. “Oh, ask Miss Hill! Don’t, for heaven’s sake, bother me about everything,” was what Letitia learned to say. She made the children’s clothes, because she liked needlework. She arranged the bouquets for the table because she was so fond of flowers. She even helped the maid to arrange any changes that were necessary in Letitia’s toilettes because she had so much taste. Mary was a very long time in finding out why it was that her friend was, as she said, “so kind.” Perhaps she never entirely discovered the reason of it. She began, when her visit had extended to months, to discover that Letitia was not, perhaps, so invariably kind as she had supposed. But that was a very natural discovery, for nobody is perfect; and to do Mrs. Parke justice, it was only when there was a very large party for the shooting, or a very important dinner, that Mary was ever disturbed either in her room or her place. She appreciated the value of such a friend. When anything was said of Mary’s visit coming to an end, Letitia was in despair. “Oh, Mary, how could you go and leave me when you see how much I have to do? Oh, Mary, how could you desert the children, who are so fond of you? And don’t you think it is far better to be here, costing them nothing, than to go back to be a burden at home?” These mingled arguments overcame the humble-minded woman. Though it was bitter to hear it said that she was a burden at home, no doubt it was true. And thus it happened that she stayed, always under pretence of being on a long visit, an unremunerated, much exercised upper servant at Letitia’s beck and call, for one whole long year.

It is true that nobody would have divined what confusion of all Mrs. Parke’s plans was to result from this expedient of hers; yet it was apparent enough to various people concerned that she was less long-sighted than usual upon this occasion—apparent, that is to say, after the event which proved it. There could be no doubt that Mary’s presence in the house made an opening for other persons to appear who were likely to be much less acceptable to Letitia, and whom, indeed, she had carefully kept at arm’s length up to this time, when that brilliant idea of seizing a domestic slave for herself entered into her mind. The world could never get on at all if the selfish people in it were always long-sighted and never forgot themselves. But for the first year all went very well—so well that Mrs. Parke was used to congratulate herself on her own cleverness and success. And everybody was pleased: Mary, who wrote home that she was so happy to be able to save dear Letitia in many little things, and it was quite a pleasure to do anything for her; and the people at the Vicarage, who were never weary of saying how kind Mrs. Parke was to Mary, and how many nice people she saw, and what a delightful, long visit she was having; and John, who declared that Miss Hill was the most good-natured and the nicest to the children of anyone he ever saw. An arrangement which brought so much satisfaction to all concerned must surely have been an admirable arrangement. And how it could lead to any upsetting of the life and purpose of the Honorable Mrs. John Parke, or dash the full breeze of prosperity that filled the sails, or in any way endanger her career, was what nobody could have divined. But the great drawback of all mortal chances and successes is that you never can tell, nor can the wisest of mankind, what strange things may be effected in a single day.