undulations of the roads. Mists of dew hung
among the purple folds of the hills, and the sun
dashed the woods and streams with kindling
gold. By-and-by the whole country side was
laughing in the full face of the day.

Hillsbro' Farmhouse was, and is, a low long
dwelling built of dark bricks, and standing
among orchards and meadows, green pasture
lands and running streams. Its ivyed chimneys
had for background the sombre lines of a swelling
moor, belted by a wood of pines which skirted
the hollow wherein the earth nourished the
fatness and sweetness of the thrifty farm acres.
Along the edge of the moor the road ran that
led to Hillsbro' Hall, and a short cut through
the wood brought one down upon a back
entrance to the squire's own grounds.

The dear old farm! Roses were blowing in
that morning at the open sashes of the big,
heavy, roughly hung windows. Two young girls,
who were afterwards dear to me as fibres of my
heart, lingered beside the open door; stately
handsome Jane, with her solemn observant
black eyes and trim dark dress, and frolicsome
Mopsie with her laughing face, and her hat
tied down, gipsy fashion, with a red ribbon.
They lingered to see me, to take their share in
giving me a welcome, and then set out on their
long walk, discussing me by the way. They
told me of it afterwards. Jane said I was only
fit for a glass case, and Mopsie declared I
alighted from the old gig as if I had a mind to
dance. They were awed by the high red heels
on my boots, the feather in my hat, and the
quilted satin of my pelisse: They wondered I
could deign to speak anything but French, and
concluded I did so only out of compliment to
their homeliness.

And I meanwhile, decked in all the fanciful
elegancies of a London toilette, sat down to
breakfast in the long parlour at Hillsbro' Farm,
with something in my heart that would not let
me eat though I was hungry, and something in
my eyes that would not let me see very well
though the sun came rich and yellow through
each of the wide windows, forming one broad
golden path down the middle of the room. I
saw but dimly the dark brown walls and ceiling,
the stiff-backed chairs with their red covers,
the jar full of late roses that stood in either
window, the heap of trailing ivy that overran
the huge grate. It was Mrs. Hollingford's
face that did it as she sat, kind, careful, hospitable,
pressing on me sweet home-made cakes,
fresh butter, fragrant tea, delicious cream, and
delicate pink eggs. Ah me! it was her face
that did it. There was my great lady, my
beneficent friend, my valiant woman. Her eyes
were a little sunken, the fire of their energy a
little slackened, her brow a little seamed; the
strain of fortitude had drawn a tight cord about
her mouth. Whence, then, that new touching
beauty that made one see the stamp of heaven's
nobility shining on her face? Had I quite forgotten
her, or was she indeed something new? It
was as if grief had chiselled her features afresh
out of the superfluous roundings of prosperity,
wasted them into perfect sweetness, hacked
them into purer refinement. She wore a straight
black gown of the coarsest material, only the
fair folds of muslin about her throat giving
daintiness to her attire. Her son breakfasted
with us, and I fancied he often looked at me
curiously as if to say, "What concern can she
have with us? why did she come? how long
will she remain? I had talked to him without
embarrassment as we drove along, but now I
could hardly speak. Never had I felt so shy in
any company as I did now in the presence of
my mother's friend.

After breakfast she led me to my room,
bright and airy, but scantily furnished. It had
a window looking out on an orchard threaded
by long alleys, over which hung a glowing roof
of fruit-laden branches. And here I unpacked
my trunks and stowed away my elegant dresses
in a huge painted wardrobe smelling of apples.
I laid aside with a kind of shame all the little
ornaments I was accustomed to wear, and
dressed myself in the plainest gown I possessed.
Descending the quaint old staircase again, I
found Mrs. Hollingford walking up and down
the hall waiting patiently for my appearance.

"What a great woman you have grown, my
love!" she said, drawing my hand within her
arm, and leading me through the open hall door.
"But you have still your mother's fair hair and
sunny eyes. Will you walk with me for an
hour? I have much to say to you, and the
sooner it is said the better."

Then she told me the story of her life, and
misfortunes, sternly, sweetly, with strange
humility and fortitude. I knew much of it
before, but she would tell it all.

"And now, my love," she said, "you know
us as we are. Your mother, when she made
me your guardian, did not foresee the changes
that were to take place. You have other friends
who are willing to give you a home. You have
come here of your own will. When you wish
to leave us we will not wonder."

I threw my arms round her neck and told her
I would not leave her. Never, since Miss Kitty
Sweetman went to India, had my heart gone
forth so completely to any one.

She bade me not be too hasty. "You will
find our life so different from anything you have
ever known," she said. "We all fear it for you.
We are so busy here. We have always a
purpose before our eyes to make us work."

"Then I will work too," I said. "I will
not be the only drone in such a thrifty hive."

She smiled at this, and shook her head. But
I immediately began to cast about for the
means by which I might find it possible to keep
my word.

CHAPTER III.

I SOON learned to love the farm. I began to
know the meaning of the word "home." The
beauty and loveableness of some persons and
places takes you by surprise; with others they
steal upon you by degrees; but there was that
about Hillsbro' Farm which I loved much at