To the girl’s mind nothing could be more enchanting than the prospect of missing the round of farewell visits, the half-sincere condolences of her mother’s large circle of friends, the dread of facing whom had been haunting her; and in the end Chris had her way, and by a mighty effort everything was packed that night, except a few necessaries which Chris herself unmethodically rammed into the trunks on the following morning, while Mrs. Abercarne made a rapid circuit of such friends as lived near, that she might not quite miss the ceremony and the sympathy of a formal leave-taking. Mrs. Abercarne had scarcely recovered the breath which Mr. Bradfield’s last letter had taken away, when the train, on a cold but fine November evening, arrived at Wyngham station. There were few people on the platform, but there was a footman evidently looking out for some one, and Chris suggested that it must be for them, and her guess was correct. The man got their luggage out, under the supervision of Mrs. Abercarne, and as the lady had thought proper to bring a great many more trunks than she really wanted in order to give a sense of her dignity and importance, this was a work of time. Meanwhile Chris, by her mother’s direction, stood back a little, and to be under her mother’s eye, waited. She was stiff and cold, and she stood first on one leg, and then on the other, weary and impatient at her mother’s lengthy proceedings. “You can sit down on that bench if you’re tired. There’s no extra charge,” said a harsh voice, ironically, close to her ear. She turned quickly, and saw a man rather under than over the middle height, of spare figure, and hard-featured face, who was standing by the book-stall, turning over the leaves of a Christmas number. He wore a long frieze overcoat, which enveloped him from his chin to his heels, and a little cap to match, which hid his eyes. Little as she could see of him, Chris instantly jumped to the conclusion that this was Mr. Bradfield himself. “He wouldn’t order me about like that if he were not,” she said to herself. And she felt rather frightened, wondering how her mother would receive this style of address, and picturing to herself the “awful row” there would be between the two at or very soon after their very first interview. She said “Thank you,” rather timidly, and took the suggestion offered, rather to prevent further conversation than because she wished to rest. When her mother had finished with the luggage, Chris ran towards her, to check any verbal indiscretion of the kind she had been indulging in on the way down, concerning the supposed unpleasant idiosyncrasies of the master of Wyngham House. But she was too late. “Very bucolic domestics this gentleman seems to have. Let us hope we shall not see their characteristics repeated in the master,” said Mrs. Abercarne, in a voice loud enough for the man at the bookstall to hear, as she and her daughter met.