When dinner was over, they set out for the play.  Janet had never been inside a theatre before, and for her the experience was an utterly novel and delightful one.

On the third day after Janet’s arrival in London they all went down to Eastbury together—­the Major, and she and George.  But in the course of those three days the Major took Janet about a good deal, and introduced her to nearly all the orthodox sights of the Great City—­and a strange kaleidoscopic jumble they seemed at the time, only to be afterwards rearranged by memory as portions of a bright and sunny picture the like of which she scarcely dared hope ever to see again.

Captain Strickland parted from the Major and Janet at Eastbury station.  The two latter were bound for Deepley Walls, for the Major felt that his task would have been ill-performed had he failed to deliver Janet into Lady Chillington’s own hands.  As they rumbled along the quiet country roads—­which brought vividly back to Janet’s mind the evening when she saw Deepley Walls for the first time—­the Major said:  “Do you remember, poppetina, how seven years ago I spoke to you of a certain remarkable likeness which you then bore to someone whom I knew when I was quite a young man, or has the circumstance escaped your memory?”

“I remember quite well your speaking of the likeness, and I have often wondered since who the original was of whom I was such a striking copy.  I remember, too, how positively Lady Chillington denied the resemblance which you so strongly insisted upon.”

“Will her ladyship dare to deny it to-day?” said the Major sternly.  “I tell you, child, that now you are grown up, the likeness seen by me seven years ago is still more clearly visible.  When I look into your eyes I seem to see my own youth reflected there.  When you are near me I can fancy that my lost treasure has not been really lost to me—­that she has merely been asleep, like the princess in the story-book, and that while time has moved on for me, she has come back out of her enchanted slumber as fresh and beautiful as when I saw her last.  Ah, poverina! you cannot imagine what a host of recollections the sight of your sweet face conjures up whenever I choose to let my day-dreams have way for a little while.”

“I remember your telling me that my parents were unknown to you,” answered Janet.  “Perhaps the lady to whom I bear so strong a resemblance was my mother.”

“No, not your mother, Janet.  The lady to whom I refer died unmarried.  She and I had been engaged to each other for three years; but death came and claimed her a fortnight before the day fixed for our wedding; and here I am, a lonely old bachelor still.”

“Not quite lonely, dear Major Strickland,” murmured Janet, as she lifted his hand and pressed it to her lips.

“True, child, not quite lonely.  I have George, whom I love as though he were a son of my own.  And there is Aunt Felicity, as the children used to call her, who is certainly very fond of me, as I also am of her.”