master's footsteps on the stairs, and he will be waiting for me." And then she kissed her hand to the children, and took up her letters again; but sometimes I caught a stifled sigh as we went out, as though the day's work was distasteful to her, and she would willingly have changed places with me.

On our return the children had their noonday sleep, and Hannah and I busied ourselves with our sewing until they woke up, and then the nursery dinner was brought up by Rhoda. Hannah always waited upon us before she would consent to take her place.

In the afternoon I sat at my work and watched the children at their play, or played with them. When Reggie was tired I nursed him, and in the twilight I sang to them or told them stories.

I never got quite used to Mr. Morton's visits—they always caused me embarrassment. His duties at the House occupied him so much that he had rarely time to do more than kiss his children. Sometimes Reggie refused to be friendly, and struck at his father with his baby hand, but Mr. Morton only laughed.

"Baby thinks fardie is only a man," Joyce observed once, on one of these occasions, "but him is fardie."

Mr. Morton looked a little grave over this speech.

"Never mind, my little girl; Reggie is only a baby, and will know his father soon." But I think he was grieved a little when baby hid his naughty little face on my shoulder, and refused to make friends. "Go, go," was all he condescended to observe, in answer to his father's blandishments.

Mrs. Morton seldom came up into the nursery until I was putting the children to bed, but even then she never stayed for more than ten minutes. There were always visitors below, or it was time to dress for dinner, or there were letters to write. It was evident that Mr. Morton's wife had no sinecure's post. I think no hard-worked sempstress worked harder than Mrs. Morton in those days.

Now and then, when the children were sleeping sweetly in their little cots, and I was reading by the fire, or writing to Aunt Agatha, or busy about some work of my own, I would hear the soft swish of a silk dress in the corridor outside, and there would be Mrs. Morton, looking lovelier than ever, in evening dress.

"I have just come to kiss my darlings, Merle," she would say. "Dinner is over, and I am going to the theatre with some friends; they are waiting for me now, but I had such a longing to see them that I could not resist it."

"It is a bad night for you to go out," I observed once. "Rhoda says it is snowing, and you have a little cough, Travers tell me——"

"Oh, it is nothing," she replied, quickly; "I take cold very easily." But I noticed she shivered a little, and drew her furred mantle closer round her. "How warm and cosy you look here!" glancing round the room, which certainly looked the picture of comfort, with the lamp on the big, round table, and Hannah working beside it; and then she took up my book and looked at it. It was a copy of Tennyson's poems that Aunt Agatha had given me on my last birthday.

"If you want books, Merle," she said, kindly, "Mr. Morton has a large library, and I know he would lend you any if you will only be careful of them. Charles, the under footman, has charge of the room. If you go in early in the morning, and write out a list of what you wish, and give it to Travers, I will see you are supplied."

"Thank you; oh, thank you, Mrs. Morton!" I exclaimed, gratefully, for I was fond of reading, and the winter evenings were long, and a book was better company than Hannah, though she was a nice girl, and I never found her in my way. I used to talk to her as we sat at work together. She was a little shy with me at first, but after a time her reserve thawed. She was a farmer's daughter, the youngest but one of twelve children, and her mother was dead. She told me she had five sisters in service, and all doing well; but the eldest, Molly, stayed at home to take care of her father and brothers.

I grew interested at last in Hannah's simple narrative. It was a new experience of life for me, for I had never taken much notice of any servant but Patience before. I liked hearing about Wheeler's Farm, as it was called, and the old black-timbered house, with the great pear-tree in the courtyard and the mossy trough out of which the little black pigs drank, and round which strutted the big turkey-cock Gobbler, with his train of wives.

"The courtyard is a pretty sight of a summer's morning," Hannah said once, growing quite rosy with animation, "when Molly comes out with her apron full of corn for the chicks. I do love to see them, all coming round her, turkeys, and geese, and chicks, and fowls, and the little bantam cock always in the middle. And there are the pigeons, too, miss; some of them will fly on Molly's shoulder, and eat out of her hand. You should see Luke throw up the tumblers high in the air, and watch them flutter down again on his arms and hands, not minding him more than if he were a branch of the pear-tree itself."

Who was this Luke who was always coming into Hannah's talk? I knew he was not one of the five brothers, for I was acquainted with all their names. I knew quite well that Matthew and Thomas worked on the farm, and that Mark had gone to the village smithy; the twins, Dan and Bob, were still at school, and Dan was lame. Perhaps Luke was engaged to Molly. I hazarded the question once. How Hannah blushed as she answered me!

"Luke is Luke Armstrong, a neighbour's son, but his father is a hard, miserly sort of a man; for all he has Scroggins' Mill, and they do say has many stockings full of guineas. His wife is no better than himself, and his brother Martin bids fair to be the same. It is a wretched home for Luke, and ever since he was a lad he has taken kindly to our place. You see, father is hearty, miss, and so is Molly; they like to offer the bit and sup to those as need it, though it is only a bit of bread and cheese or a drop of porridge. Father hates a near man, and he hates old Armstrong like poison."

"Is Luke your sister Molly's sweetheart?" I hazarded after this. Hannah covered her face and began to laugh.

"Please excuse me," she said at last, when her amusement had a little subsided, "but it does sound so droll, Molly having a sweetheart! I am sure she would never think of such a thing. What would father and the boys do without her?"

"Bless me, Hannah," I returned, a little impatiently, "you have five other sisters, you tell me; surely one of them could help Molly, if she needed it; why, you might go home yourself!"

"Oh, but none of us understand the cows and the poultry and the bees like Molly, unless it is Lydia, and she is dairymaid up at the Red Farm. They do say Martin Armstrong wants Lyddy; but I hope, in spite of his father's guineas, she will have nothing to say to Scroggins' Mill or Martin. You see, miss," went on Hannah, waxing more confidential as my interest became apparent, "Wheeler's Farm is not a big place, and a lot of children soon crowded it out. Mother was a fine manager, and taught Molly all her ways, but they could not make the attics bigger, and there was not air enough to be healthy for four girls, with a sloping roof and a window not much bigger than your two hands. And then the creeper grew right to the chimneys; and though folk, and especially the squire, Lyddy's master, said how pretty it was, and called Wheeler's Farm an ornament to the whole parish, it choked up the air somehow; and when Annie took a low fever, Dr. Price lectured mother dreadfully about it. But father would not have the creeper taken down, so mother said there were too many of us at home, and some of us girls ought to go to service. Squire Hawtry always wanted Lydia, and Mrs. Morrison, the vicar's wife, took Emma into the nursery; and Dorcas, she went as maid-of-all-work to old Miss Powell; and Jennie and Lizzie found places down Dorcote way; but Mrs. Garnett, who knew my father, coaxed him to let me come to London."

"And you are happy here?" I