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It was six months now since the arrival at the house in Market Square Place. Mr Denison had been long with the regiment at -- -- No, it does not specially matter where it was in India. The sisters got letters from him, as well as from their mother, by almost every mail, and in each he repeated the same thing -- that he had never in his life found himself a person of so much consequence as Colonel and Mrs Mildmay considered him, seeing that he could give them direct news and description of their three children. And on their side, this seemed to make their parents more real and to draw them nearer to Jacinth and Frances, increasing more and more the intense longing for their return.
It is autumn, a pleasant season in this part of the country -- really pleasanter perhaps, though one is reluctant to allow it, than the lovely, fascinating, capriciously joyous spring -- and it is a Friday. Jacinth and Frances Mildmay are walking home from school, carrying their little bag of books. For Saturday is a whole holiday -- no going to school that is to say -- so, naturally, some lessons must be learnt at home for Monday.