at me, I thought tenderly, from the walls where their portraits hung in heavy carved frames, of a fashion a generation old. There was about my mother's face a haunting expression, as of a well known face which long afterward looked out at me one day from my own reflection in the mirror and then, to my joy, I discovered I was like her in feature and expression. In the library too, whose key Mr. Winthrop had left with Mrs. Flaxman for my use, I found an unexplored wonderland. My literature had chiefly consisted of the text book variety, and if I had possessed wider range, my time was so fully occupied with lessons I could not have availed myself of the privilege; but now, with what relish I went from shelf to shelf, dipping into a book here and another there, taking by turns poetry, history, fiction, and biography, Shakespeare and Milton had so often perplexed me in Grammar and analysis, that I left them for the most part severely alone; but there were others, fresh and new to me as a June morning, and quite as refreshing: Hubert used sometimes to join me, but we generally disagreed. I had little patience with his practical criticisms of my choicest readings, while he assured me my enthusiasm over my favorite authors was a clear waste of sentiment. Mrs. Flaxman was, in addition to all this, adding to my fund of knowledge the very useful one of needlework, and was getting me interested not only in the mysteries of plain sewing, but brought some of her carefully hoarded tapestries for me to imitate—beautiful Scriptural scenes that sent me to the Bible with a critical interest to see if the designs were in harmony with its spirit. Then too I used to spend happy hours exploring garden, field and forest, for Oaklands embraced a wide area, making acquaintance with the gentle Alderneys, and Jerseys, who brought us so generously their daily offering, as well as the many other meek, dumb creatures whom I was getting to care for with a quite human interest. The seashore too had its constantly renewed fascinations which drew me there, to watch its tireless ebb and flow, or the busy craft disappearing out of sight towards their many havens around the earth. Stories I had for the seashore, and others for the woodland and gardens which I carried on in long chapters, day after day, until sorrowfully I came to the end, as we must always do to everything in this world.

My heroes and heroines were all singularly busy people, carrying on their loves and intrigues amid restless activities, and living in the main to help others in the way of life rather than, like myself, living to themselves alone. Altogether I did not find a moment of my sixteen hours of working life each day any too long, and opened my eyes on each morning's light as if it were a fresh creation.

Then, in addition to all these, there were solemn, stately tea drinkings among the upper ten of Cavendish society, but usually I found them a task—the music was poor, the conversation almost wholly confined to local affairs, and the only refection of a first-class nature was the food provided. Cavendish ladies were notable housewives, and could converse eloquently on pickling, preserving, baking and the many details of domestic economy, while as regarded the fashions, I verily believe they could have enlightened Worth himself on some important particulars. I used to feel sadly out of place, and sat very often silent and constrained, thinking of my dearer, and more satisfying companionships of books, and sea, and flowers, and the fair face of nature generally, and wondering if I could ever get, like them, absorbed in such humble things, getting for instance my pickles nicely greened, and of a proper degree of crispness, and my preserves, and jellies prepared with equal perfection for diseased and fastidious palates. "Why can't they talk of their minds, and the food these must relish, and assimilate, instead of all the time being devoted to the body; how it must be fed and clothed?" I asked, with perhaps too evident contempt, of Mrs. Flaxman, one evening as we drove home under the midnight stars, after one of these entertainments.

"My child, it is natural that people should talk on subjects that most interest them. Not every one has vision clear enough to penetrate beyond the tangible and visible."

"Then, in what are the Cavendish aristocracy better than Mrs. Blake, and that class? Even she talks sometimes to me about God and the soul. She says she and Daniel think a great deal about these of late."

"God only knows; they may be far better in His sight than any of us," Mrs. Flaxman said, wearily.

"Not any better than you, dear friend," I said, clasping the little, thin hand in mine.

"Yes, better, if they are doing more for others than I, sacrificing their own ease and pleasure, which, alas, I am not doing."

"How can you say that, when you are making home, and me so happy? I want to grow to be just such a woman as you."

"Alas, child, you must take a higher ideal than I am to pattern after, if your life is to be a success."

"Mrs. Blake tells me of a good man living on the Mill Road, who is blind and thinks a great deal. He says none of us can tell what our lives seem like to the angels, and that many a one will get an overwhelming surprise after death; some who think they are no good in the world, mere cumberers of the ground, will find such blessed surprises as they wander through the Heavenly places."

"That is very comforting, dear, if we could only hope to be among those meek ones."

"He told Mrs. Blake she might be one of God's blessed ones if she wished—that any sincere soul was welcomed by Him."

"Surely you did not need to go to Mrs. Blake to learn that?"

I was silent, perhaps ashamed for Mrs. Flaxman to know how very dense my ignorance was respecting these mysteries of our holy religion. As the weeks went by my friendship for Mrs. Blake strengthened. I kept her little cottage brightened with the old-fashioned blossoms that she loved best. "They mind me so of when I was a child, and the whole world seemed in summer time like a great garden. We lived deep in the country, just a little strip of ground brought in from the woods, and all round our little log house was the green trees," she said one day, the pleasant reflective look that I liked to see coming into her kind, strong face. I used to sit and listen to her homely, uncultivated speech, and wonder why I liked her so much better than my natural associates. She was so real, I could not imagine her trying to appear other than she was. Some way she seemed to take me back to elementary things, like the memories of childhood or the reading of the Book of Genesis. Then she had so changed Daniel's cottage—newly papered, whitewashed and thoroughly cleansed with soap and water, it seemed one of the cosiest, homeliest places I ever saw. I only went in the afternoons, and her housework then was always done; but she was never idle. I used to watch her knitting stockings of all sizes with silent curiosity; but one day I asked who a tiny pair of scarlet ones was for. "Mrs. Larkum's baby. The poor things are in desperate trouble," she replied.

"But do you knit for other folks?"

"Yes, fur some. Them I jest finished is fur one of the Chisties' down the lane. Any size from one to ten fits there."

"Are they able to pay you?" I ventured to inquire.

"I don't ginerally knit for folks as can pay. It's a pity for little feet to go bare because the mother was thriftless or overworked."

I watched the busy fingers a little sadly, comparing them with my own daintily gloved hands, that had never done anything more useful than to hold a text book, or sketch, or practice on the ivory keys, while those other hands often tired, calloused with hard usage, had been working unselfishly through the years for others.

"I wish you would teach me to knit," I said one day, seized with a sudden inspiration.

"'Twould be a waste of your time. Folks like you don't wear home-knit stockings."

"Oh, yes they do. Pretty silken hose is