Chapter 46

The unbroken greyness out of doors, and the gusty wind sending the dead
curled-up leaves whirling through the chilly air, or racing over the
pavement of Dawson Place, made Miss Starbrow's dining-room look very warm
and pleasant one morning early in the month of October. The fire burning
brightly in the grate, and the great white and yellow chrysanthemums in
the blue pot on the breakfast-table, spoke of autumn and coming cold; and
the fire and the misty flowers in their colours looked in harmony with
the lady's warm terra-cotta red dressing-gown, trimmed with slaty-grey
velvet; in harmony also with her face, so richly tinted and so soft in
its expression, as she sat there leisurely sipping her coffee and reading
a very long letter which the morning post had brought her. The letter was
as follows:

DEAR MARY,--We have now been here a whole week, and I have more to
tell you than I ever put in one letter before. Why do we always say that
time flies quickly when we are happy? I am happiest in the country, and
yet the days here seem so much longer than in town; and I seem to have
lived a whole month in one week, and yet it has been such an exceedingly
happy one. How fresh and peaceful and _homelike_ it all seemed to me
when we arrived! It was like coming back to my birthplace once more, and
having all the sensations of a happy childhood returning to me. My _happy_
childhood began so late!

But I must begin at the beginning and tell you everything. At first it
was a little distressing. In the house, I mean, for out of doors there
could be no change. You can't imagine how beautiful the woods look in
their brown and yellow foliage. And the poor people I used to visit all
seemed so glad to see me again, and all called me "Miss Affleck," which
made it like old times. But Mrs. Churton received us almost as if we were
strangers, and I could see that she had not got over the unhappiness both
Constance and I had caused her. She was not unkind or cold, but she was
not _motherly_; and while she studied to make us comfortable, she
spoke little, and did not seem to take any interest in our affairs, and
left us very much to ourselves. It seemed so unnatural. And one morning,
when we had been three days in the house, she was not well enough to go
out after breakfast, and Constance offered to go and do something for her
in the village. She consented a little stiffly, and when we were left
alone together I felt very uncomfortable, and at last sat down by her and
took her hand in mine. She looked surprised but said nothing, which made
it harder for me; but after a moment I got courage to say that it grieved
me to see her looking so sad and ill, and that during all the time since
I left Eyethorne I had never ceased to