these occasions; but whenever I had, I spent it with Milly Darrell,
and on these rare afternoons I was perfectly happy. I had grown to
love her as I did not think it was in me to love any one who was not
of my own flesh and blood; and in so loving her, I only returned the
affection which she felt for me.

I am sure it was the fact of my friendlessness, and of my
subordinate position in the school, which had drawn this girl's
generous heart towards me; and I should have been hard indeed if I
had not felt touched by her regard. She soon grew indescribably dear
to me. She was of my own age, able to sympathize with every thought
and fancy of mine; the frankest, most open-hearted of creatures; a
little proud of her beauty, perhaps, when it was praised by those
she loved, but never proud of her wealth, or insolent to those whose
gifts were less than hers.

I used to write my home-letters in her room on these rare and happy
afternoons, while she painted at an easel near the window. The room
was small, but better furnished than the ordinary rooms in the
house, and it was brightened by all sorts of pretty things,--
handsomely-bound books upon hanging shelves, pictures, Dresden cups
and saucers, toilet-bottles and boxes, which Miss Darrell had
brought from home. Over the mantelpiece there was a large photograph
of her father, and by the bedside there hung a more flattering
water-coloured portrait, painted by Milly herself. It was a powerful
and rather a handsome face, but I thought the expression a little
hard and cold, even in Milly's portrait.

She painted well, and had a real love of art. Her studies at Albury
Lodge were of rather a desultory kind, as she was not supposed to