belong to any class; but she had lessons from nearly half-a-dozen
different masters--German lessons, Italian lessons, drawing lessons,
music and singing lessons--and was altogether a very profitable
pupil. She had her own way with every one, I found, and I believe
Miss Bagshot was really fond of her.

Her father was travelling in Italy at this time, and did not often
write to her--a fact that distressed her very much, I know; but she
used to shake off her sorrow in a bright hopeful way that was
peculiar to her, always making excuses for the dilatory
correspondent. She loved him intensely, and keenly felt this
separation from him; but the doctors had recommended him rest and
change of air and scene, she told me, and she was glad to think he
was obeying them.

Upon one of these half-holidays, when midsummer was near at hand, we
were interrupted by an unwonted event, in the shape of a visit from
a cousin of Milly's; a young man who occupied an important position
in her father's house of business, and of whom she had sometimes
talked to me, but not much. His name was Julian Stormont, and he was
the only son of Mr. Darrell's only sister, long since dead.

It was a sultry afternoon, and we were spending it in a rustic
summer-house at the end of a broad gravel that went the whole length
of the large garden. Milly had her drawing materials on the table
before her, but had not been using them. I was busy with a piece of
fancy-work which Miss Susan Bagshot had given me to finish. We were
sitting like this, when my old acquaintance Sarah, the housemaid,
came to announce a visitor for Miss Darrell.