My compact with Tessie did not, however, preclude one thing, and that was the taking advice of my friends on the state of my affairs. With the state of those of other people I had nothing to do. But I could not decide whether to write to Mr. Warrington or Mrs. Sandilands. The solicitor was, of course, the most proper person to consult on the subject, but it appeared to be such a formidable proceeding to make a regular complaint to him, and I dreaded its entailing legal inquiries, and perhaps a complete estrangement between myself and the Lovetts. And, in that case, what would become of my promise of fidelity to Tessie? Mrs. Sandilands, on the other hand, although only a woman, had thorough good sense, and had managed all her own money affairs since her husband’s death, and might be able to give me some hints by which to manage my guardian and obviate the necessity of calling in professional assistance. So the day after I had taken that walk with Tessie, I sat down to write to Mrs. Sandilands. It was always a pleasure to me to take up the pen to address my old friend. Thoughts of the pretty countrified home which we had shared together, and of the many happy hours we had passed in each other’s society, used to flow in upon me as I wielded it, and sometimes I was almost tempted to regret I had been so cold-hearted as to be unable to claim the title of daughter so warmly offered to me. What a cheerful, comfortable fireside theirs was. I could imagine no brighter lot for some poor lonely unloved orphan than to be welcomed to the bosom of the Sandilands family—for any orphan, that is to say, except Hilda Marsh. The bright-eyed helpful girls and the boisterous healthy boys, with their rosy cheeks and young clear voices—I fancied I could see them at that moment gathered round the dinner-table. Nellie and Connie and Flo helping their mother to carve, whilst Bell, the spoilt baby of the family, albeit ten years old, was seated at Mrs. Sandilands’ elbow, ready to grab at anything that came within her reach; and the boys’ eyes were glistening at the sight of pudding, and their mouths, luckily for all those concerned, too full to permit them to make much noise. Poor Charlie would not be present at that early meal. He always took his lunch in town, and relied on his mother looking after his creature comforts at tea-time. Poor Charlie! I always thought of his name with that prefix, though I used to tell myself it was very ridiculous to do so; and that if he had inherited any of his mother’s practical good sense, he must have seen, even before I had left Norwood, that the proposal he had made to me was one that, under any circumstances, I could never have entertained.