kept the still indignant Margery from saying more, and she prepared to move away with her charge. But, as she turned to go, she caught a glimpse of her acquaintance the tinsmith, who was in the act of dropping into the plate a crumpled Scotch bank-note, which he held in his broad palm.

"Bless me, they're all going daft together," muttered Margery, with uplifted hands, as she hurried away. "It was a very good discourse, no doubt, but to think of folk strippin' themselves like that—a pun'-note, forsooth, near the half of the week's work; the man's gone clean demented."

But the tinsmith's serene, smiling face showed no sign of any aberration of intellect, and Margery took Grace's hand, and hurried her through the crowd, resolved that she should not, for another instant, stand by and countenance such reckless expenditure.

Grace was conscious that her old nurse was still possessed by a strong feeling of disapproval regarding her donation, so she rather avoided conversation; besides, she had a great deal to think about as she walked along the crowded lamp-lit streets by Margery's side.

At last they reached the quiet square where Miss Hume lived, and as they crossed the grass-grown pavement and went up the steps to the house, Grace glanced up to the curtained window of her aunt's sitting-room, and suddenly remembered, with a feeling of discomfort, that Miss Hume must presently be told of the destination of her locket; if not by herself, certainly by Margery, who had just heaved a heavy sigh, and was evidently girding herself up for the painful duty of narrating the strange behaviour of her charge.

"Now, Margery, I'm going to auntie, to tell her about the locket, this very minute, so you need not trouble about it," said Grace, as she ran quickly upstairs to her aunt's room and closed the door.

Margery never knew exactly what passed, nor how Miss Hume's well-regulated mind was ever reconciled to such an impulsive act on the part of her niece. But, as she sat at her usual post by the old lady next day, while she took her afternoon's rest, Miss Hume said rather unexpectedly, when Margery concluded she was asleep, "Margery, you remember my sister? Does it not strike you that Miss Campbell is getting very like her mother? These children are a great responsibility to me; I wish their mother had been spared," she added, rather irrelevantly, it seemed to Margery, and then presently she fell asleep without any reference to the locket question.

But that night, when Grace was going to bed, she told her old nurse that her aunt had promised that when they went back to Kirklands again she might try to find some little boys and girls to teach, and that she would allow her to have one of the old rooms for her class. She did not tell how eagerly she had asked that, in the meantime, she might be allowed to try and help the neglected city children, to whose necessities she had been awakened by such thrilling words that day, though Miss Hume had thought it wise to restrain her impatience. But out of that evening's events had grown the cherished plan which sent Grace on such a chilly afternoon among the woods and braes of Kirklands to seek any boy or girl who might need her help and friendship.

THE SEARCH

iss Hume, Grace's aunt, left the management of Kirklands entirely in the hands of her business agent. Mr. Graham met the tenants, gathered the rents, arranged the leases, and directed the improvements without even a nominal interference on her part. And certainly he conscientiously performed these duties with a view to his client's interests. It may be wondered that Miss Hume did not take a more personal interest in her tenants, but various things had contributed to this state of matters. Indeed, she was now so infirm that it would have been difficult for her to take any active interest in things around her, especially as it had not been the habit of her earlier years to do so.

It was her younger sister, Grace's mother, who used to know all the dwellers in the valley so well that her white pony could calculate the distance to the pleasant farmyard at which he would get his next mouthful of crisp corn; or the muirland cottage, with its delicious bit of turf, where he would presently graze, as he waited for his young mistress, while she talked to the inmates. But if the little girl with her white pony could have come back again to Kirklands, they would have missed many a familiar face, and searched in vain for many a cottage. The pleasant little thatched dwellings, with velvety tufts of moss studding the roof, and pretty creepers climbing till they mingled with the brown thatch, telling of the inmates' loving fingers, were all swept away now, and in the place that once knew them, stretched trim drills of turnips, fenced by grim stone walls, to which time had not yet given a moss-covered beauty.

Mr. Graham had thought it wise for his client's interests to remove those little "crofts," and merge their kailyards into productive fields; so the dwellers in the greensward cottages had to wander townwards to seek shelter and work in city courts and alleys. The land was now divided into a few farms, on which stood imposing-looking houses, with knockers and latch-keys to the doors, where the little girl and the white pony would never have ventured to ask admittance, or cared to gain it--where "nobody wanted nothin' from nobody," old Adam, the gardener, had assured Margery, when she made anxious inquiries concerning the prospect of Grace's search, and who hoped that this circumstantial information might persuade her young mistress to abandon it.

The prophecy that it was "a fule's errand" rang unpleasantly in Grace's ear, as she crossed the park and climbed the rustic stiles which led to the high road. It was true she knew that during the last three years there had been many a "clearance" at Kirklands, for she remembered having overheard Mr. Graham congratulating her aunt on the larger returns owing to these improvements. But surely, she thought, there might still be found some little cottages like those to which she heard her mamma was so fond of going when she was a girl. Walter and she used certainly, she remembered, often to see children with bare, dust-stained feet on the road, when they happened to go beyond the grounds on a fishing expedition, or down with their aunt through her lands; but her brother had been an all-sufficient playmate, and Grace's interest in the peasant children did not extend beyond a glance of curiosity. But now how gladly would she gather a little company of them to tell them that old sweet story, which had come to her own heart with such new strange sweetness, during these winter days, though she had heard it ever since she could remember. Grace hurried eagerly along the high road, looking at every turn for traces of any lowly wayside dwellings. There used to be a little clump of cottages here, she thought, as she stopped at a bend of the road where there were traces of recent demolitions, and a great field of green corn was evidently going to reclaim the waste place, and presently swallow it up. Behind where the vanished cottages had stood there stretched a glade of birch-trees, with their low twisted stems rising from little knolls of turf so mossy and steep, that the drills of turnips and potatoes could not possibly be ranged there without destroying their symmetry, even though the crooked birch-trees were to be swept away.

Grace wandered among the budding trees, and through the soft springy turf that was growing green again