In those first days of mourning little had been said of Oliver’s future line of life, which had still remained so far undecided at the time of his father’s death. As a matter of course, Oliver had returned to Oxford to finish his term and take his degree, which he did with all the _éclat_ that had been expected from him, winning a first class, and immediately afterwards returning to Friarton Mill—his first return since his father’s death—with Fan awaiting him to do what she could to make up for the absence of another face and voice by lavishing upon her brother her unbounded congratulations. It was the month of June, one of the two seasons when Friarton Mill was the nearest to an Arcadia. Enough of time had passed for Fan Constable to be comforted for her old father’s death. She was able to hail her brother’s arrival on the heels of his achievement, with all it implied to her, in a spirit of exalted approbation. She was anxious to do him all the honour in her power, and she displayed her anxiety according to her instincts and training. It was the fashion in Friarton to say that Fan Constable was a worldly-minded as well as an unjustifiably proud and assuming young woman. But Fan expressed herself on this occasion in a sufficiently simple manner. She conned a cookery book, and tormented the miller’s old housekeeper to cook a dinner, which Sally Pope said might have been another funeral or wedding feast; and farther exasperated Sally by bidding her serve it at a late hour. In the meantime Fan repaired with all her belongings to the drawing-room, which had not been her ordinary sitting-room. She had previously dressed herself in her best gown of dim black silk and crape, with its sweeping train, and she now sat down to look out for Oliver with an impatiently throbbing heart.