"Not more than I did; not indeed so much. They could not: they had others with them nearer than I."
"Perhaps none dearer," he quietly answered. "My father's death was almost sudden at the last. The shock to me was great: I did not think to lose him so early."
"A little sooner or a little later!" murmured Mildred. "What does it matter, provided the departure be a hopeful one. As his must have been."
"As his was," said William. "Mildred, you are not greatly changed."
"Not changed!"
"I said, not greatly changed. It is still the same face."
"Ah, you will see it by daylight. My hair is turning grey."
"Mildred, which day will you spend with us?" he asked, when leaving. "To-morrow?"
Mildred evaded a direct reply. Even yet, though years had passed, she was scarcely equal to seeing the old home and its installed mistress; certainly not without great emotion. But she knew it must be overcome, and when Mr. Arkell pressed the question, she named, not the morrow, but the day following.
William Arkell went home, and had the nearest approach to a battle with his wife that he ever had had. Mrs. Arkell was alone in their handsome drawing-room; she did not keep it laid up in lavender, as the old people had done. She was as pretty as ever; and of genial manners, when not put out. But unfortunately she got put out at trifles, and the unpleasantness engendered by it was frequent.