Philippa by Mrs Molesworth Contents Good-Byes “What?” said Philippa “So Unlike Her” Fellow-Travellers “Solomon” “Miss Ray” A Successful Début A Morning Ramble Mingled Feelings “Merle-in-the-Wold” A Cold Nose An Appeal Herself Again Charley’s plan Maida at Fault Sunshiny Days “Rencontres” A Torn Frill Good News A Visitor in a Hansom Circumstances On the Way to the Fish-Ponds Ended Charley’s Friend Illustrations “Philippa already! How nice!” “I beg your pardon; I never saw Solomon take such liberties before.” “You will bewitch my father, I am sure.” His presence was first revealed to the weeping girl by the touch of a cold nose on her hand. Looking for all the world like the everyday Philippa. So he stepped forward with quiet matter-of-fact ease to greet her. To her the whole scene was almost one of enchantment. “May I show myself in?” said a voice in the doorway. Chapter One. Good-Byes. Autumn—scarcely late autumn yet—and the day had been mild. But as the afternoon wore on towards evening, there came the chilliness and early gloom inevitable at the fall of the year—accompanied, to those who are sensitive to such things, by the indescribable touch of melancholy never present in the same way at other seasons. Philippa Raynsworth shivered slightly, though half-unconscious that she did so, and turned towards the shelter of the friendly porch just at her side. As she moved, a hand was laid on her shoulder. “Come in, you silly girl,” said its owner. “Do you want to catch cold?” Philippa had been watching the gradual disappearance of a carriage down the long drive, till a turn in the road suddenly hid it altogether. Others had been watching it too, but she was standing somewhat aloof—she had no special interest in the departing guests; she had never seen them till to-day, and might very probably never see them again. But something nevertheless had impressed her—the kind of day, the approach of the gloaming, the evening scents from the garden, the little shy breeze that murmured and grew silent again—there was a plaintive harmony in it all, and even the prosaic, measured sound of the horses’ feet, growing fainter and fainter, and the carriage receding from sight while the “good-byes” still seemed hovering about, all fitted in. She did not seek to define what it reminded her of, or what feelings it awakened in her. It was just a scene—a passing impression, or possibly a lasting one. There is never any accounting for the permanence of certain spots in our experience—why some entirely trivial incident or sensation should remain indented on our memory for ever; while others which we would fain recall, some which it seems extraordinary that we should ever be able to forget, fade as if they had never been—who can say?