ladder, or buried deep in the recesses of the
deep leathern chairs.

Now, however, the luxury of our quiet days
was interfered with. Workmen hammered
about our ears, and an impertinent odour of
paint annoyed us. We turned our reading days
into days of general inspection, and amused
ourselves with watching how the dingy corners
threw off their cobwebs one after another, and
came forth into the light with clean and brilliant
faces. It was pleasant to know that I was
useful to John in those days, for his mother did
not interfere in this affair, and he needed a
woman's taste to help him. It was I who
selected the colours for Mrs. Hill's drawing-
room carpet, I who chose the silk hangings for
Miss Leonard's boudoir, I who rearranged in
the cabinets the curiosities about which no one
but a stray mouse or two had been curious for
many years. I knew well that I did nothing
but what any other person could do, yet it
pleased me to see how John overrated my
services. It pleased me to hear him describe to
his mother my "exquisite taste and skill;" but
it pained me to see her anxious look from him
to me. I knew she feared that he was getting
to like me too well; sometimes with a mixture
of fear and joy I thought it myself. I guessed
that his mother would rather keep her son by
her side unwed—perhaps that he could not
afford to marry. I often longed to slip my
hand in hers, and say, "be not afraid, I am
true;" but I could only look straight in her
eyes and be silent. And this thought, perhaps
because I might not speak it out and have done
with it, remained with me, and preyed upon my
mind. About this time I began to be awake
at nights, planning how I might show Mrs.
Hollingford that I had no wish to thrust myself
between her and her son.

And so it came that there arose a strangeness
between John and me. I did not wish it to be
so, but it happened naturally as a consequence
of all my thinking and planning. It grew up
in the midst of our pleasant work at the hall,
and it was troublesome, for it took the joyous
adornment off every thing, made handsome things
ugly, and comfortable things dreary. It made
the snowy landscape lonely, and the red sun
angry. It made me cold and disobliging, the
girls dull, and John proud and reserved. Jane
spoke of it to me; she said:

"What is the matter between you and John?
You used to be such good friends. Now you
hurry down-stairs in the evenings, though you
know he likes our chat round the school-room
fire. And when we go to the hall you start early
for the purpose of walking home without him"

"Don't be foolish, Jane," I said, "John and
I are just as good friends as ever. But you
must not suppose he always cares for our
women's chatter. We must give him a little
rest sometimes."

Jane was silenced, but not satisfied. She
thought I was beginning to look down on her
brother. The proud loving heart would not brook
this, and she, too, estranged herself from me.
The girl was very dear to me, and it was a trial.

Thus a division grew up amongst us. It was
in the bright frosty days before Christmas, when
the fields and dales were wrapped in snow, when
the logs burned merrily, and the crickets sang,
when fairyland was painted on every window-
pane, when our superintendence at the hall was
over, when all things there had been placed in
readiness, even to the lighting of the fires in the
bed-chambers. We had left Mrs. Beatty in
possession of her domain, and in daily
expectation of an announcement of the intended
arrival of her master and mistress. Things
were in this way when one day a carriage dashed
up to our farm-house door, and out stepped
Grace Tyrrell and her brother Frederick.

Jane shrank into a corner when I asked her
to accompany me down-stairs, murmuring
something I would not hear about my "fine friends."
But Mopsie smoothed her curly locks, and put
on her best apron, and slipped her hand in mine
as I went down to the parlour.

Grace was impatiently tripping about the
room, making faces at the bare walls and
laughing at the old-fashioned furniture. She was
clothed in velvet and fur, with feathers nodding
from her hat. She put her hands on my
shoulders and eyed me all over critically.

"Pray, little quakeress," said she, "can you
tell me what has become of my friend Margery?"

"Yes," said I, laughing, "I actually happen
to have her about me. What do you want
with her?"

"Only to ask her what sin she has committed
that she shuts herself up from the world, starves
herself to skin and bone, and dresses herself in
sack-cloth?" she replied, touching my dress,
and trying its texture between her finger and
thumb.

"We do not starve her," put in Mopsie,
stoutly.

"And who are you, little miss?" said Grace,
using a gold-rimmed eye-glass, which nearly
annihilated poor Mopsie.

"No matter," said the little one, scarlet and
trembling. "We are all Margery's friends, and
we love her dearly."

Grace laughed at the child's ardour, as if it
were something very funny and original; but
Mopsie, never flinching, held my hand all the
time.

"And what about the ploughman, dear?"
Grace went on; "would it be possible to get
a sight of him? Yes, do go" (to Mopsie), "like
a useful little girl, and see about getting us
some lunch. We are staying in this country
at present, Margery, and when we return to
London we intend to take you with us."

Mopsie's eyes dilated dangerously, but she
retreated to the door at a whisper from me.

"Frederick," said Grace, "come and help me
to persuade Margery." And Mopsie vanished.

I said something about Frederick Tyrrell
before, but I can hardly describe how
excessively slim, and elegant, and effeminate he looked
to me that day in particular. His dress and
his manners amused me very much. While
staying with the Tyrrells one of my chief
occupations had been making fun of this young man,