she had not bestowed much thought upon
that necessarily closely approaching event,
but now she turned her attention to it.
Under ordinary circumstances even, if
things had gone on pleasantly as heretofore,
if their stay had been made as comfortable
to them, the attention of Mr. Creswell and
his nieces had been as great, and the
general desire for them to remain as obvious,
they would have had in common decency
to propose some date for the expiration of
their visit. And now that Tom, who had
hitherto been only a negative nuisance, had
developed into a positive enemy, it was
doubly necessary that they should take
precaution not to outstay their welcome.
Yes, they must go! Give up all the
comforts and luxury, the fine airy rooms, the
bedroom fires, the carriage drives, the good
living, the wine, and attention, all of
which combined had done Mrs. Ashurst so
much good, and rendered her stronger and
sounder than she had been for years—all
these must be given up. And they must
go away to poky stivy lodgings, with dirt
and discomfort of every kind. With
wretched cooking, which would turn her
mother sick, and the attendance of a
miserable maid-of-all-work, who would not
understand any of their ways, and the
perpetual presence of penury and want
making itself felt every hour of their lives.
The picture was so horrible, so repugnant
to Marian, that she determined not to let it
engross her thoughts in anticipation; it
would be quite sufficient to cope with when
it came, and she should require all her
energies fresh and untaxed for the
encounter. So she walked briskly on, and
as she had now reached the village her
attention was quickly absorbed by the
greetings which she received, and the talk
in which she had to take part.

The first greetings were from Mr.
Benthall. Marian had determined that she
would not go down Southwood-lane, which
led to the schoolhouse, as she had no desire
of encountering either master or boys in
her then mood. She had not been near
the school since she and her mother left
the house, and she had arranged in her
mind a little farewell on her part to both
when she left the village. And now here
was Mr. Benthall advancing straight
towards her, and there was no possibility of
escape, as she remembered that it was the
Saturday half holiday, and that she should
probably have to run the gauntlet of a
score of friends. Mr. Benthall was a brisk,
lively, agreeable man, with cheerfulness
and pleasant manners, and plenty of small
talk. He was, moreover, a gentleman and
a man of the world, and he knew exactly
how to pitch the key of his conversation to
a young lady the daughter of his predecessor,
who might or might not—Mr. Benthall's
experience of human nature told
him might and probably would—feel
somewhat antipathetic towards him. So Mr.
Benthall talked of Mrs. Ashurst, and of
Mr. Creswell, and of the young ladies, and of
Tom.  "My friend Trollope's young charge,"
as Mr. Benthall spoke of him, with a somewhat
malicious sparkle in his eye.  And
the weather was quite cold, was it not?
and the frost had set in quite early, had it
not?  And Miss Ashurst was looking so
blooming that Mr. Benthall had no need to ask
her how she was, which was, indeed,
the reason why he had not done so long
since, but must beg her to take charge of
his kindest compliments for her mother and
the young ladies, and Mr. Creswell.  And
Mr. Benthall had taken off his well-brushed
hat, and had skipped across the road in his
well-brushed shapely boots, and Marian
was contrasting him with that figure which
was ever present to her memory, her
father, bowed and shrunken, and slatternly
and ill dressed, when she heard her Christian
name called aloud, and Dr. Osborne,
in his little four-wheeled pony carriage,
drew up by her side.

"Well, Princess!" said the cheery old
medico; "for since I have made you hear
I may as well address you by your title—
well, Princess, how goes it?"

"It goes very well, indeed, dear Doctor
Osborne," said Marian, returning his hand
pressure.  "But why Princess?"

"Why Princess!  What lower rank
could a girl be who lives in a palace, over
there I mean, with 'vassals and serfs by her
side,' as I've heard my girl sing years
ago, and all that kind of thing?"

"But surely only a princess of the
Cinderella style, my dear doctor; only enjoying
the vassals and the serfs, and what
you call 'that kind of thing,' for a very
limited time!  Twelve o'clock must strike
very soon, dear old friend, in our case, and
then this princess will go back to the pots
and kettles, and cinder-sifting, and a state
of life worse than ever she has known
before."

"God forbid, my dear!" said the doctor,
seriously. "Which way are you going?
Back again to Woolgreaves?  All right.
I'm driving that road, and I'll set you
down at the gates.  Jump in, child. I