She was of that godlike calm which frets not, believing always that only good could come to her, and that, as she heard nothing from her lover, it was because--which was indeed the truth--he was arranging for their future.

If it had been fine she had meant to go to the tree, but as it rained she went quietly to her room, and let her Priscilla brush her hair for an hour, while she stared in the old dark glass, seeing not her own pale and exquisite face, but all sorts of pictures of future happiness.

That she must not tell her old nurse, for the moment, of her good fortune was her one crumpled rose-leaf, but she had arranged that when she went she would post a letter at once to her, and Priscilla would, of course, join her in London, or wherever it was John Derringham would decide that she should live.

The thought of leaving her aunts did not so much trouble her.

The ancient ladies had never made her their companion or encouraged her to have a single interest in common with them.