and a small square of green carpet laid upon
the sanded floor. It had three latticed
windows looking westward, and one of those odd
grates I have mentioned, large enough to cook
a dinner. We kept it filled with logs, and in
the evenings, after we had drawn the curtains
in the parlour, set the tea-table, and made
Mrs. Hollingford comfortable on the sofa for
an hour's rest, we three retreated to our school-
room for a chat in the firelight. Here John
joined us when he happened to come home
early, and many a happy hour we passed, four
of us sitting round the blazing logs, talking and
roasting apples. We told stories, tales of the
outer world, and legends of the country around
us. We described places and people we had
seen, and our fancies about others we had not
seen. John, who had travelled, was the most
frequent speaker; and as I was a wonder of
experience to his sisters, just so was he a
wonder to me. We laughed, cried, or listened
in breathless silence, all as he willed, while the
purple and yellow lingered in the sky behind
the lattice, and the moaning of the wind
through the forlorn fields, the hissing of the
roasting apples, and the crackling of the burning
wood, kept up an accompaniment to his
voice.

There were other evenings, too, when John
was late, and Mopsie having grown tired of
serious talk, tripped off to hear the lasses singing
Bold Robin Hood in the kitchen. Then
Jane used to open her heart to me, and talk about
the troubles of the family. Her heart was
stern and bitter against her father. Well had
she said she was proud; well had her mother
wished to humble her, if that could be done.
She had, I believe, a great intellect, and she had
much personal beauty of a grand character. I
do not think she thought much about the latter,
but she felt her mental powers. She knew she
was fitted to move in a high sphere, and chafed
against her fate; still more against the fate of
her brother.

I think I see her, on her low seat before the
fire, her hands clasping one knee, her dark
head thrown back, and her eyes fixed on the
dancing shadows above the chimney.

"To think of John settling down as a
farmer!" she said; "John, who for cleverness
might be prime minister. And there is no
hope of his getting away from it; none
whatever."

I could not but agree to this, though the
thought occurred to me that the farm might
not be so pleasant a home if John had to go
away and be prime minister. All I could say I
said to combat her rebellious despondency as to
her own future.

"If you knew the emptiness and foolishness
of the gay world," I said, in a sage manner,
"you would be thankful for our quiet life at
Hillsbro'."

"It is not the gay world I think of," she
said. "It is the world of thought, of genius."

"Well, Jane," said I, cheerfully, "you may
pierce your way to that yet."

"No!" she said. "If I had a clean name I
would try to do it. As it is, I will not hold up
my head only to be pointed at. But I will
not spend my life at Hillsbro', moping. I
will go away and work, teach, or write, if I
can."

I saw her eyes beginning to flash, and I did
not like these fierce moods for Jane. I was
turning over a book at the time, and, to divert
her attention, I read aloud the name written on
the title-page.

"Mary Hollingford," I said. "Was not she
your elder sister?"

Jane started. "Yes," she said. "Who
mentioned her to you?"

"Your mother," I said, "used to tell me of
her little Mary, who was at school in France.
I cannot recollect who told me of her death.
Do you remember her?"

"Oh yes," said Jane, "perfectly. We did
not lose her till after—my father went away."

"I suppose she took the trouble to heart," I
said, reflectively; and then was sorry I had
said it. But Jane answered,

"Yes," readily; then dropped her face
between her hands, and remained plunged in one
of her motionless fits of abstraction lor half an
hour.

I never alluded to this subject again to
Jane, but one evening, when Mopsie and I
were alone together, the child spoke of it
herself.

"Margery," she said, "you are holding me
now just as sister Mary used to hold me with
both her arms round my waist, when I was a
tiny little thing, and she used to play with me
in our nursery in London."

"You remember her, then?" I said.

"Yes," said Mopsie. "I remember her like
a dream. She used to come home for the
holidays, and a handsome French lady with her,
who used to throw up her hands if we had not
ribbons in our sleeves and smart rosettes on our
shoes. I remember sister Mary in a pretty
white frock trimmed with lace, and her hair
curled down to her waist. I used to think her
like one of the angels. But we never speak of
her now, nor of papa, because it pains mother
and John. I used to speak of her to Jane
sometimes in the night, just to ask her did
she think sister Mary was thinking of us in
heaven; but Jane used to get into such
dreadful fits of crying that I grew afraid.
I wish some one would talk of her. I think
it is cruel of us all to forget her because she is
dead."

And tears stood in Mopsie' s blue eyes. But
the next half hour she was singing like a sky-
lark over some household task.