'Gratitude is all nonsense,' Miss Darrell answered impatiently. 'I
want to know that my father is loved as he deserves to be loved. I
shall never tolerate that woman unless I can feel sure of that.'

'I believe you are prejudiced against her already, Milly,' I said
reproachfully.

'I daresay I am, Mary. I daresay I feel unjustly about her; but I
don't like her face.'

'What is there in her face that you don't like?'

'O, I can't tell you that--an undefinable something. I have a sort of
conviction that she and I can never love each other.'

'It is rather hard upon Mrs. Darrell to begin with such a feeling as
that, Milly.'

'I can't help it. Of course I shall try to do my duty to her, for
papa's sake, and I shall do my best to conquer all these unchristian
feelings. But we cannot command our hearts, you know, Mary, and I
don't think I shall ever love my stepmother.'

She took me down to the drawing-room after this. It was half-past
six, and we were to dine at seven. The drawing-room was a long room,
with five windows opening on to the terrace, an old-fashioned-
looking room with panelled walls and a fine arched ceiling. The
wainscot was painted white, with gilt mouldings, and the cornice and
architraves of the doors were elaborately carved. The furniture was