And the various “Sallys” and their corresponding swains can hardly feel more regret than she when it happens to be wet weather on Easter week or at Whitsuntide.

Whit-Monday, the day when Tom escaped from the printing-office, and Elizabeth got leave of absence for six hours, was as glorious a June day as well could be.  As the two young people perched themselves on the top of the Richmond omnibus and drove through Kensington, Hammersmith, Turnham Green, and over Kew Bridge—­Tom pointing out all the places, and giving much curious information about them—­Elizabeth thought there never was a more beautiful country, or a more lovely summer day:  she was, she truly said, “as happy as a Queen.”

Neverthless, when the omnibus stopped, she, with great self-denial, insisted on getting rid of Tom for anytime.  She thought Miss Hilary might not quite like Tom’s knowing where she lived, or what her occupation was, lest he might gossip about it to Stowbury people; so she determined to pay her visit by herself, and appointed to meet him at a certain hour on Richmond Bridge, over which bridge she watched him march sulkily, not without a natural pleasure that he should be so much vexed at losing her company for an hour or two.  But she knew he would soon come to himself—­as he did, before he had been half a mile on the road to Hampton Court, meeting a young fellow he knew, and going with him over that grand old palace, which furnished them with a subject at their next debating society, where they both came out very strong on the question of hypocritical priests and obnoxious kings, with especial reference to Henry VIII, and Cardinal Wolsey.

Meanwhile Elizabeth went in search of the little shop—­which nobody need expect to find at Richmond now—­bearing the well-known name “Janet Balquidder.”  Entering it, for there was no private door, she saw, in the far corner above the curtained desk, the pretty curls of her dear Miss Hilary.  Elizabeth had long known that her mistress “kept a shop,” and with the notions of gentility which are just as rife in her class as in any other, had mourned bitterly over this fact.  But when she saw how fresh and well the young lady looked, how busily and cheerfully she seemed to work with her great books before her, and with what a composed grace and dignity she came forward when asked for, Elizabeth secretly confessed that not even keeping a shop had made or could make the smallest difference in Miss Hilary.

She herself was much more changed.

“Why, Elizabeth, I should hardly have known you!” was the involuntary exclamation of her late mistress.

She certainly did look very nice; not smart—­for her sober taste preferred quiet colors—­but excessively neat and well-dressed.  In her new gown of gray “coburg,” her one handsome shawl, which had been honored several times by Miss Hilary’s wearing, her white straw bonnet and white ribbons, underneath which the smooth black hair and soft eyes showed to great advantage, she appeared, not “like a lady”—­a servant can seldom do that let her dress be ever so fine—­but like a thoroughly respectable, intelligent, and pleasant-faced young woman.