demurred, but she insisted. "Then I won't let you come with me;" and
he gave way.

They were alone in a compartment, and he shouted above the rattle of
the train something about her being missed at Marbridge.

"Oh, no," she said, "mother and the girls think it is a good thing I
am going."

"Your father and I will miss you," Johnny told her.

"You?"

"Yes; I'll miss you very much--we both shall; we shall sit
down-stairs, each side of the fire-place, and think how you used to
come there sometimes. And when I wait in the dining-room when your
father's not at home, I'll remember how you used to come down there
and chat. We had many a chat, didn't we?--you and me, and Bouquet
burning between us--there was nobody could trim Bouquet like you. But
perhaps you'll be back before winter comes round again?"

"I don't know when I shall be back," was all Julia could find to say.
The idea of being missed like this was new and strange to her; the
Polkingtons' feelings were so much guided by what was advisable, or
expedient, that there was not usually much room for simple emotions.
She felt somehow grateful to Johnny for caring a little that she was
going, though at the same time she was unpleasantly convinced that she
did not deserve it.

"It won't be at all the same at No. 27," Mr. Gillat was saying. "Your