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she
responds to it as readily as though indeed her own.
    She gives a
sigh of enjoyment when she is seated beside Mrs. Adair in a
first-class carriage on the train, with wraps, hot water bottles, a
basket of grapes, and plenty of illustrated papers. This is life
worth living indeed, to recline amid luxurious cushions, and have
Mrs. Adair's footman and the guard saluting at the door every now
and then, and poor people on the platform looking with interest at
their magnificence.
    A few hours
later, and Pansy is for the first time in London; but there is no
need for her to feel weary and bewildered and strange amid the
turmoil, for a carriage from Silverbeach Manor is waiting at the
junction. They drive at their ease down into Surrey, where
Silverbeach Manor stands -- a picturesque and much-admired
residence near the banks of the Thames at its loveliest point.
    The Manor is
very old. Some say it was built in the reign of Queen Anne. Mr.
Adair restored it, but the architect managed to retain its
old-world look. Pansy is enraptured with the avenue of chestnut
trees, stately even in the darkening days, with the thick yew
shrubbery, the quaint corridors, the valuable pictures, and the
modern comfort and elegance which Mrs. Adair prizes more than the
antiques. Pansy feels quite a heroine of romance as she wanders
amid the exotic plants, and puts on her first evening dress from a
London West End establishment.
    But there are
crumpled rose leaves even amid her enchantment. She is not quite at
her ease in the matter of table etiquette, and meals are for her
somewhat spoilt by the necessity of watching Mrs. Adair, that in
all points she may follow her movements, and a notion that the
servants are conscious of her bewilderment and awkwardness. Then
Mrs. Adair thinks it ridiculous of her to drink nothing but water.
Pansy has always been a teetotaller, but does not like to run
counter to the opinions of her patroness. Fortunately, a neighbour
reminds Mrs. Adair that water drinking has become quite
fashionable, and so Pansy is permitted to please herself in this
matter.
    The first
Sunday at Silverbeach is a new experience. Sunday school at
Polesheaton began at a quarter to ten, but here they are
breakfasting at that hour, and as Mrs. Adair has a headache and
does not feel fit for church, Pansy has to stay in and read to her
an empty sort of novel which her conscience pronounces far from
Sunday reading. There is an elaborate lunch to which several people
drop in, then music (not wholly sacred), extensive criticism of
mutual friends not present, afternoon tea, and a late dinner,
during which the church bells ring in the distance, calling them to
the evening service in vain.
    Despite Cyril
Langdale's company, Pansy feels it is a miserable sort of Sabbath,
and her thoughts go wistfully to the familiar place of worship, the
Sunday school, and tender-eyed Aunt Temperance.
    Next morning
she says, falteringly, to Mrs. Adair, "I have not sent a line to
Aunt Temperance to let her know we got here safely. May I not write
one letter -- only one -- to ease her mind, Mrs. Adair?"
    "Never ask me
that question again," is the reply, with a touch of the irritable
temper well known at Silverbeach. "Since you wish to ease Miss
Piper's mind, you may write one letter -- it must be the first and
last."
    So Pansy
betakes herself to her dainty desk of inlaid mother-of-pearl, and
on thick, perfumed paper, with monogram and crest, she writes as
follows to Miss Piper:
     
    My own dearest
Auntie,
    You must
not think that I have forgotten you, for I never,
never shall as long as I live; but we have been so
busy at Silverbeach -- shopping all the morning and visitors all
the afternoon, and Mrs. Adair likes me to play or read aloud when
she is alone in the evening. I get very little time to myself, but
I am not really to begin my studies till we are settled abroad for
the winter. This is a most splendid house, a far grander place than
The Grange, and the rooms are perfectly