pressed the milk into the pail, "mother says that it is the same thing over and over again all our lives, and I suppose it is true, but I wish I could have something different."

Beauty only lowed; but if she could have spoken English she might have said, "If you find life monotonous, what must it be for me? In the morning I rise and crop the grass, then I come in to be milked. I go back to the meadow and bathe in the stream or eat as much grass as I want; in the afternoon I lie under the shade of the trees and chew the cud; and in the evening I come again to be milked, and once more return to the meadows. If I have a calf of my own, it is taken from me and sent—I know not where. Yes, it is the same thing over and over again. Yet I am quite content."

Whatever Beauty meant as she lowed and looked at Ruth with her great patient eyes, the young girl did not understand, but went on thinking aloud: "Yes, it is breakfast, dinner, tea and supper every day, and mother has to see to it all; and the children to be washed and dressed and nursed, and the cows to be milked, and the cream to be skimmed; and then every year father has the ploughing, and sowing, and haying, and the har——"

"Ah, Ruth, I see you are making yourself useful," cried her father, as he entered the farm-yard followed by two merry looking boys aged respectively seventeen and twelve. It was evident from a single glance that they were Ruth's brothers, although their hands and faces were brown and sunburnt, and Will, the elder, was fully a head taller than his sister.

"Guess what Will has got for you, Ruth!" cried roguish little Ned.

"Oh, Will!" she exclaimed, looking up brightly, all her grave thoughts gone in a moment, "have you brought a new plant for my garden? No! Has Annie Price sent the pattern she promised for my wool-work? Well then, is it the new tune-book you were talking of yesterday, with both the music and words?"

"No, you are quite wrong; and as I can't tell whether it is anything good or bad, I may as well give it to you at once. It's from a girl, I think," continued Will, as he took a letter from his pocket.

"A letter for me! Who can it be from? Yes, I see it comes from a girl by the writing. What a pretty hand! ever so much better than mine; and here is the post-mark—Busyborough; it must be from Cousin Julia," she said as she turned the letter over.

Then she opened it and began to read, while her brothers stood by full of interest, and saw a look of mingled wonder, surprise, and delight spread over her face. They waited as long as their curiosity would permit, and then both cried eagerly, "What does she say? What is it all about?"

"She wants me—that is, aunt has invited me—to spend my holidays with them at the sea-side," said Ruth, speaking very slowly, and looking as if she could hardly understand the idea of such a piece of good fortune coming in her way. "But there," she added with a sigh, as she refolded the letter and put it into her pocket and tried to banish the visions of brightness it had called forth, "of course it is quite out of the question. I couldn't go away now when every one is so busy."

She walked slowly back to the house, and tried not to think of the bright dream of pleasure the letter had suggested; but this was not an easy matter, as her father and mother were already sitting at the tea-table talking over the same subject, for Mrs. Arnold had also received a letter from Busyborough that afternoon.

CHAPTER II.

TALKING IT OVER.

"Have you read your cousin's letter, Ruth?" asked her mother as she took her seat. "Why, what makes you look so unhappy?" she exclaimed, observing the girl's grave face.

"It's very silly, I know, mother; and I didn't mean to be vexed about it," she began, "but Julia said something about my going to the sea-side with them to spend the holidays. Of course I know very well that you couldn't spare me,—but I can't help crying—just a minute, mother, that is all," said Ruth, while her tears dropped slowly.

"Don't cry, child; we'll talk it over to-night, and see what can be done," said her father cheerfully.

"But, father!" cried Ruth, starting up in surprise, her tears quite forgotten, "you don't think really that there is any chance of my going, do you? Just see how busy you are with the haying, and then there are the boys and the little ones——"

"Well, well, your mother and I will talk it over," he repeated, as he took up his hat and set out again for the hay-field.

The summer evening soon slipped away, and Ruth knew better than to worry her mother by asking foolish questions; but when supper was over, and her head lay at rest upon the pillow, her brain was busy, and it was a long time before sleep overtook her. Delightful visions of sea-side places such as she had read of in her favourite books, of picnics and boating, of rambles in search of shells, rare stones and long sea-weeds, filled her mind; and as she heard the monotonous sounds of her parents' voices talking in low tones in the room beneath her, and knew that they were discussing the important question Was she to go or stay? her impatience almost got the better of her, and she longed to run downstairs and take part in the conversation.

Presently the voices ceased, there were footsteps on the stairs, the light of a candle showed through the chink of her door, the footsteps receded and a door was shut, and Ruth knew that the decision was made and her mother had gone to bed. And as she could not know the result of the conversation that night, she very wisely closed her eyes and went to sleep.

Early the next morning she was awakened by the sun shining in at her window. She rose at once, dressed quickly, and was soon downstairs, but not before her mother, who was busily preparing the breakfast. There was so much to be done before the meal was ready, so much chatter over it, and so many last words to the boys and their father before they set out for the hay-field, that Ruth could not find an opportunity to ask her mother the question that was burning upon her lips, until all trace of the meal was removed and the children had gone to play in the orchard.

Then she went upstairs to help her make the beds, and there was time for a quiet chat.

Mrs. Arnold began by inquiring, "What did your cousin say in her letter yesterday?"

"She asked if I could spend my holidays with them at the sea-side," replied Ruth, blushing with joy at the very thought.

"And you would like to go?"

"Oh yes, indeed I should, very, very much; that is—of course—if you could spare me," she added hesitatingly.

"I suppose then that you do not know what your aunt has suggested. She writes to know if we will spare you, not only for the holidays, but for a whole twelvemonth, to be a companion to your cousin and go to school with her (What are you doing with the pillows, Ruth?), to share her studies and amusements."

"Should I see none of you for a whole year?"

"I am not sure; that would depend upon your aunt."

"But—mother—you don't think of letting me go, do you?" asked Ruth, almost over-whelmed with pleasure and surprise.

"I don't know. Your father thinks it would be good for you, but I am not sure, Ruth. I am afraid whether, after living in a handsome well-appointed house, waited upon by servants, and surrounded with comforts and luxuries, you would grow discontented with our quiet country life. I know you love your home now, but I fear lest a life in town should spoil you, and make you no longer our little Ruth, but a grown-up young lady, who would feel herself above our simple joys and pleasures, and only bring herself to tolerate them from a sense of duty."

"Mother, mother!" cried Ruth, bursting into tears, "don't talk so.