It was home. She remembered her old friends the
cottagers, and wondered whether goody Mason were still alive, and whether
Widow Green's fair-haired children would remember her. She had taught
them at the Sunday-school; but they too must have grown from childhood to
womanhood, like herself, and were out at service, most likely, leaving Mrs.
Green's cottage lonely.
She thought of these simple things, poor child, having so little else to
think about, on this, her coming home. She was not so foolish as to expect
any warm welcome from her father. If he had brought himself just to
tolerate her coming, she had sufficient reason to be grateful. It was only
a drive of two miles from Holborough to Arden. They stopped at a lodge-gate
presently; a little gothic lodge, which was gay with scarlet geraniums
and chrysanthemums, and made splendid by railings of bronzed ironwork.
Everything had a bright new look which surprised Miss Lovel, who was
not accustomed to see such, perfect order or such fresh paint about her
father's domain.
"How nice everything looks!" she said.
"Yes," answered her uncle, with a sigh; "the place is kept well enough
nowadays."
A woman came out to open the gates--a brisk young person, who was a
stranger to Clarissa, not the feeble old lodge-keeper she remembered in her
childhood. The change, slight as it was, gave her a strange chill feeling.
"I wonder how many people that I knew are dead?" she thought.
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