the most charming attributes of her mind. For some time the letters
contained nothing that could be called news; but late in September
there came one which seemed to me to convey intelligence of some
importance.


'You will be grieved to hear, my darling Mary,' she wrote, after a
little playful discussion of my own affairs, 'that my stepmother and
I are no nearer anything like a real friendship than we were when
you left us. What it is that makes the gulf between us, I cannot
tell; but there is something, some hidden feeling in both our minds,
I think, which prevents our growing fond of each other. She is very
kind to me, so far as perfect non-interference with my doings, and a
gracious manner when we are together, can go; but I am sure she does
not like me. I have surprised her more than once looking at me with
the strangest expression--a calculating, intensely thoughtful look,
that made her face ten years older than it is at other times. Of
course there are times when we are thrown together alone--though this
does not occur often, for she and my father are a most devoted
couple, and spend the greater part of every day together--and I have
noticed at those times that she never speaks of her girlhood, or of
any part of her life before her marriage. All that came before seems
a blank page, or a sealed volume that she does not care to open. I
asked some trifling question about her father once, and she turned
upon me almost angrily.

"I do not care to speak about him, Milly," she said; "he was not a
good father, and he is best forgotten. I never had a real friend
till I met my husband."