Mrs. Parke went home with a little excitement in her mind, caused by the sight of this friend of her youth. The familiar form brought back still more distinctly all that was past and its extraordinary contrast with all that was present. Mary Hill in the clothes that she must have been wearing all this long time (“I am sure I know that frock,” Letitia said to herself), afforded the most perfect example of all the difference that had arisen in her own life. But this was not her only thought. Perhaps her mind was moved by a little touch of old kindness. Such darts of light will come through the most opaque blanks of a self-regarding life. Letitia was very practical, and it seemed to her that to keep two women like Mary and Anne Hill in the depths of the country with nothing to do but to take care of the vicar and the aviary, which one could do amply, while she herself stood much in need of a companion and help, was the greatest waste of material possible. Her active mind leaped in a moment to all the advantages of such a visitor in the house as Mary Hill, an old friend with whom it would not be necessary to stand on ceremony, who could be sent about whenever there was need for her, who would look after the children, and “do” the flowers and make herself useful. And what an advantage it would be to her. She would see the world; she could make acquaintance with the best society. She might perhaps meet some one; some old clergyman or family doctor who would make her an offer. The idea took possession of Letitia. It would be such a good thing. She spoke of it to John when they met at luncheon. “Should you mind if I asked an old friend to pay us a long visit,” she said. “I---- mind? I never interfere with your visitors,” said John, surprised. He added, however, with a little surprise when he thought of it: “I never knew you cared for old friends.” “They are generally a bore,” said Mrs. Parke; “they remind you of things you want to forget and people you hate. But not this one. It is Mary Hill. She is the vicar’s daughter at Grocombe. Poor people, they are very poor. It will be a kindness to them. A mouth to feed in such a house is a great matter.” “It is very kind of you, Letitia, to think of it.” “Oh, as for that! and she would be so useful to me. I do feel sometimes the burden of all I have to do--the housekeeping--to make a good show on such a limited income, and to keep up one’s social duties; and then the children always wanting something. I don’t know how I have borne it so long without any help.” “But I don’t see,” said John, “how having a friend in the house would mend that.”