station, by some mishap, but one clerk was left to attend to the demands of first, second, and third class passengers, and there was a crowd on either side. Grace nearly gave it up in despair, and had only just time to run for her train, leaving her dignity for the moment to take care of itself.

When they got to Renton they looked about—no one was there. Their spirits again sank considerably, and it was with ruffled temper, coming of wounded self-consequence, that Grace got into a cab with her sister, and crawled on up the hill to Renton House.

What she had expected, or what her dreams had been, is a matter of no moment, for they vanished there and then. A short tree-less drive up to a square house of no great size, with a good honest cabbage-garden beside and behind it,—a field, in which fluttered some household washing, and the town, smoky and full of factories below it, this was the palace of her dreams, the Renton House to which she had already invited (luckily in a very vague manner) her favourite schoolfellows.

Robert, who wore no particular clothes, answered the door, and showed them into a large primly-furnished room, and went off to announce their arrival to Mr. Sandford.

He came in and received them kindly enough, told them to wash their hands quickly as dinner was ready. But his pompous manner chilled them. Something in it seemed to say so plainly to them—"You have no real claim upon me, but I am giving you my countenance all the same."

In their room alone, the sisters looked at each other for a moment in silence; then their hearts sank, and forgetting time, and all but their disappointment, they cried in each others arms long and bitterly.

It was characteristic of Grace, that, in all her trouble and depression, she still thought of changing her dress. Dinner was ready, and they were twice sent for, but though Margaret was ready she would not go down by herself; and her sister, who wished to make an impression, was particular to the last item; the correct tying of a bow, and the placing of it exactly where it should produce the desired effect.

They went downstairs, and found the drawing-room empty; lower still to the dining-room, where Mr. Sandford had an unpromising scowl upon his brow.

"Less might have served you," he said, glancing at the girls, "when I was waiting."

"I am very sorry," began Margaret, but she was stopped by Grace—

"You might have put dinner off," she said, coolly, "as our train gets here so late—it was quite impossible to be ready sooner."

Mr. Sandford stared at her attentively for a moment; a grim smile crossed his face; but he looked from her to her sister, and his countenance softened. Margaret was very like his wife—not so good-looking he thought, but like—and he was glad, and he took a fancy to her from that time.

There was plenty of everything, though all was plain. Mr. Sandford said little; Grace was the chief speaker, and what she said did not please him. She found fault with the trains, the smoke, the bustle, the inconvenience at the railway-station. He heard her in silence for some time, and then, looking up, he said, sarcastically—

"If I had thought of it, I might have ordered a special train for you."

Grace was slow to see a joke against herself, but she had an uncomfortable feeling (very dimly felt) that such a thing might be possible—in him.

Dinner went on. Mr. Sandford, from beneath his shaggy brows, watched the girl before him. He was immensely amused by her airs and graces; and, as observation is frequently mistaken for admiration by wiser people than Grace Rivers, she rose from table quite satisfied with a success which she intended should lead to many important results.

She talked a good deal about this to Margaret that night when they went to their room, and about all the reforms she intended to make in the household. Margaret listened, with all the deference she was accustomed to pay to Grace's remarks, and no misgiving crossed the mind of either sister as to the complete power to be in Grace's hands.

"I shall have a great deal to do," she said, in a tone of much importance, as they finally composed themselves to rest.

As it was her last thought at night, so it was her first idea next morning.

The room they were in was a large square room, and off it was a room that corresponded with the drawing-room below, having equally with it the only bow window in the house, and commanding a country view over some green fields.

It was full of lumber—of old maps, school-books, &c.,—and, as is often the case where no womanly eye is there to interfere, various accumulations it was nobody's business to look after, had gathered there.

Broken china and broken chairs, some old prints, with their glasses broken also. Whatever happened was there concealed from Mr. Sandford's view.

"We will clear this out," said Grace, "put it to rights, and make this our sitting-room."

But she found her determination confronted at the very outset by Mr. Sandford's opposition.

"Is the drawing-room not big enough for you? What do you want a sitting room for? You should be glad enough to have a good warm room; let it be, I am not going to have the house upset by you or any one else."

"But we want a place where we can work and not mind making a litter," urged Grace, "and we can do it ourselves."

"Leave it alone," he said, gruffly, and he walked out of the room.

Grace made a gesture of despair.

"Here will be a more difficult task than I thought," she said, pathetically, to her sister. "Is it not hard that I should have so much trouble at the very beginning?"

"It is hard, darling," said Margaret, gently, "but you will get all you want soon; you know every one does what you like at last; you must just make him do it after a bit, when you know him better."