For one thing, the awful physical strain of her work in France had altered her, turned her from a girl into a woman.

She had seen many terrible things, and she had met with certain grim adventures she could never forget, which remained all the more vivid because she had never spoken of them to a living being.
And then, as she suddenly told herself, with a rather bitter feeling of revolt, the life she was leading now was not calculated to make her retain a look of youth.

Last week, in a fit of temper, Rosamund had said to her:--"I only wish you could see yourself! You look a regular 'govvy'!" She had laughed--the rather spiteful words passing her by--for she had never cared either for learning or teaching.

But now, as she gazed critically in her mirror, she told herself that, yes, she really did look rather like a nice governess--the sort of young woman a certain type of smart lady would describe as her "treasure".

Forty or fifty years ago that was the sort of human being into which she would have turned almost automatically when poverty had first knocked at the door of Old Place.