A sudden opening of the door--a well-known form, tall, upright, noble, but from which a portion of the youthful elasticity was gone--and Mildred found herself face to face with her cousin William. How loved still, the wild beating of her heart told her! His simply friendly greeting, warm though it was, recalled her to her senses. "What a stranger you have been to us, Mildred!" he exclaimed. "Never to come near Westerbury all these years! When my father was dying, he wished so much to see you." "I would have come then had I been able, but Lady Dewsbury was very ill, and I could not leave her. Indeed, I wish I could have seen both my aunt and uncle once more." "They felt it, I can tell you, Mildred." "Not more than I did; not indeed so much. They could not: they had others with them nearer than I." "Perhaps none dearer," he quietly answered. "My father's death was almost sudden at the last. The shock to me was great: I did not think to lose him so early." "A little sooner or a little later!" murmured Mildred. "What does it matter, provided the departure be a hopeful one. As his must have been." "As his _was_," said William. "Mildred, you are not greatly changed." "Not changed!" "I said, not greatly changed. It is still the same face." "Ah, you will see it by daylight. My hair is turning grey." "Mildred, which day will you spend with us?" he asked, when leaving. "To-morrow?" Mildred evaded a direct reply. Even yet, though years had passed, she was scarcely equal to seeing the old home and its installed mistress; certainly not without great emotion. But she knew it must be overcome, and when Mr. Arkell pressed the question, she named, not the morrow, but the day following. William Arkell went home, and had the nearest approach to a battle with his wife that he ever had had. Mrs. Arkell was alone in their handsome drawing-room; she did not keep it laid up in lavender, as the old people had done. She was as pretty as ever; and of genial manners, when not put out. But unfortunately she got put out at trifles, and the unpleasantness engendered by it was frequent. "Charlotte, I have seen Mildred," he began as he entered. "She will spend the day with us on Friday, but I suppose you will call upon her to-morrow." "No, I shan't," returned Mrs. Arkell. "She's nothing but a lady's-maid." William answered sharply. Something to the effect that Mildred was a lady born and bred, a lady formerly, a lady still, and that he respected her beyond anyone on earth: in his passion, he hardly knew what he said. Mrs. Arkell was even with him.