as they had been in old times; always honest, steadfast and true.

Thorn Farmhouse was, and is, a long low dwell ing built of dark-red bricks, with diamond-paned casements set deep in ivy wreaths. All through the summer days the hall-door stood open, and the big bloodhound and slim greyhound lay sleeping on the sunny threshold.

Within the house there were low rooms with beams across the ceilings; long dark passages with a step up here, and a step down there; cupboards and shelves in unexpected nooks, and little slits of windows in niches where you did not look for them.

As to the bowery old garden, every inch of ground was stocked with riches and sweets. Mint, and thyme, and marjoram sent up a pungent fragrance from their lowly beds; and "hot lavender" grew thickly. There was a certain grassy path hemmed in by rose-bushes, where the turf was often covered with petals, white and pink; and there was another path that ran along between the privethedge and the filbert-trees, and was a shady retreat in sultry weather.

The birds were well acquainted with the black and white and red currants, and big white-heart cherries. Generation after generation of feathered thieves had feasted luxuriously at the expense of the Winterburns, and had never been in the least afraid of the old hats and coats stuck up to intimidate them. But the farmer and his household were not hard upon the birds, and seemed quite content that robins, finches, thrushes, blackbirds, and sparrows should have a share of the fruit.

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Nothing but gunpowder will ever keep them off," Mr. Winterburn would say, when he saw them perching derisively on his most terrific scarecrow; "and they shall never be shot while I'm master of Thorn Farm."

The garden went rambling up to an ivy-grown fence which parted it from the orchard at the back of the house, and beyond the orchard lay the wide fields where "winking marybuds" drank the morning dew and glistened in the early sunlight of spring. There the cows cropped the sweet grass, and came lowing down the gentle slope at milkingtime; and there, in the night-stillness, stealthy wild creatures crept out under the stars, and went straying over the cool sod. A belt of woodland encompassed the fields; and oak and beech caught the last red glory of sunset on their ivy-clasped stems, and made a pleasant darkness which the kine loved to seek in the glare of noontide.

I introduce you to the old farmhouse in autumn, when the Virginia creeper has hung its crimson fringes round the windows to console us for the faded roses. The day is dreamy and still; the time is afternoon, just the hour when distant hills begin to lose their outlines in a faint purple haze, and a golden mist gathers over the woods and fields.

As usual, the hall-door was open; and Delia Winterburn, coming out to look for her sister, had to step between the outstretched limbs of Bevis and Ruby. The dogs, too lazy to rise, thumped the ground with their tails in languid recognition of her presence.

The westering sunbeams shone on Delia's face as she walked leisurely along the garden path. Miss Winterburn was one of those women who do every

thing leisurely; she had a cool, slow way of performing all the duties of life, but they were sure to be well and thoroughly done. Never in a hurry, rarely showing any outward trace of discomposure, some people were provoked by that unruffled calm of hers, and called her inanimate and unfeeling. But there were sick mothers and children in Thistledean who understood her better than that, and could tell of the warm heart and quick sympathy that lay hidden under her still manner.

The face that the sun shone upon was a full, oval English face, with heavy, but regular features, and clear blue eyes. Light brown hair as smooth as satin was neatly plaited at the back of the head, and everything about the figure betokened care and refinement. Delia Winterburn was above middle height, a stately well-formed young woman of twoand-twenty, looking older than her years, but possessing that staid kind of comeliness that does not soon show time's changes, and outlasts a more girlish type of beauty.

Bees were humming over beds of mignonette, and buzzing in and out of Canterbury bells; and wasps feasted greedily on the vine wall, where grapes were ripening in the mellow warmth of September. No sounds were to be heard save these soft insect murmurs; even the stir of the farmyard was hushed, and cocks and hens seemed to be under the drowsy spell of the afternoon.

"I shall find her in the filbert-walk," said Delia. to herself.

The filbert-walk was the grassy path at the bottom of the garden; a spot much frequented by Delia's younger sister when she was in a studious or a dreamy mood. It was a narrow path, so narrow

indeed that two could only just walk abreast between the privet hedge and the row of thickly-growing filbert-trees. Delia's instincts had not misled her; the person she sought was sitting on a little rustic seat at the end of the alley with an open book on her knees.

The ivied fence made a dark background for the bright brown head that leaned against it, and stray tresses of wavy hair looked red gold in the sun. Prudence Winterburn, two years younger than her sister, was altogether a smaller and slighter maiden, and there was but little likeness between Delia and herself.

While Delia's cheeks bloomed with fresh roses, Prudence was pale, but her skin had the pure healthy whiteness of the privet-blossoms, and her lips were brightly red. Her features, less regular than Delia's, were more delicately moulded; and her figure, if less stately, had more of the supple grace of girlhood. She had large blue-gray eyes, as soft and wistful as a child's when it is listening to a nursery tale, and it was perhaps that earnest, listening look that gave an indescribable charm to her

face.

"Has she any children?"

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Two, a girl and boy; so of course there will be changes at Pine Cottage. Mr. Sorrell is looking about for another servant; he thinks Keziah Leever may suit him, and asked my opinion."

Keziah has a hot temper, Delia; how would she get on with the children?"

"I told him about her temper, but added that she was thoroughly honest and trustworthy. I believe he will give her a trial; the little Chaffords, he says, are remarkably good children."

"That is fortunate; I always had a notion that Anglo-Indian children were very troublesome."

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But they are not fresh from India; the girl is ten, and the boy eight, and they have been living with Mrs. Paget, their mother's sister. Mrs. Chafford came home nearly two years ago, after her husband's death, and has been leading an unsettled kind of life, paying a series of visits to relations and friends. Poor thing; she wants to be at rest!"

"I wonder that she didn't come straight to Pine Cottage when she was left a widow. Mr. Sorrell always spoke of her with great affection."

"I suppose she had to stay with her husband's people for a time," Delia replied. "But Mr. Sorrell fancies that they were not very kind.” "What have they done to her?" "I don't know; I am half inclined to think that they have been borrowing her money, and she cannot have much to spare! But this is mere surmise. The dear old man looked grave and pained when he spoke of the Chaffords, and said he feared. that they did not consider the fatherless children and the widow; that was all. He added something about demands on poor Josephine's resources;' but I could not distinctly hear the words."

"Poor dear old Mr. Sorrell," said Prudence, shutting her book, and rising from her rustic seat. "It does appear hard that an old bachelor should be burdened with the care of other people's children. His nieces and nephews seem fated to give him anxiety in his age; I suppose he is still worrying himself about that luckless godson of his?"

"You mean Mrs. Chafford's cousin, Garret Montague. It is a sad business. It seems he will never be fit for the service any more; and he is lamed for life, poor fellow."

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'I forget how he came to be hurt; was he doing anything reckless?"

"My dear Prue, no. He was injured in a railway accident last year, just before Christmas. It is well that he has such a good friend as Mr. Sorrell; I think he will be invited to make Pine Cottage his home for a time."

"I hope Mr. Montague and Mrs. Chafford won't spoil the peace of their uncle's last days," said Prudence, shaking her head. "Talking of peace, Delia, did you ever know a more perfectly peaceful day than this?" She turned as she spoke, and stood looking across the fence to the orchard. Old knotty boughs were bending beneath their load of ruddy apples; and the sun, sinking lower and lower, was pouring a flood of amber light on moss-grown trunks and deep grass, until the place looked like a bit of glorious dreamland. The lights were so rich and

"I am so happy," said Prudence, drawing a long breath. "A day like this makes me feel amply contented with life; there are no inward cravings and murmurings. I daresay a great many people would call mine a humdrum existence, but I don't think I desire a change."

"Change often means pain," Delia replied.

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Yes; sometimes when I have wanted a break in this sweet monotony, I have almost feared the granting of my wish. And yet it would be pleasant to have a friend-not another sister, Delia-but a friend -a kindred soul."

But, Prue, how can we be sure that people are true? Too often the fiends assume the garb of the shining ones;' it is not wise to give a hasty welcome. Let us see how the shining robe wears before we yield our trust."

"I think we may rely on our instincts," said Prudence, in a sage manner.

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"They were

"Not always," Delia answered. dangerous guides the feelings,' and feeling is another word for instinct."

"O Delia, you are quoting the worldly mother in Tennyson's Locksley Hall.' That was one of her little hoard of maxims,' you know."

"Never mind whose maxim it was, it is worth remembering."

And Prudence did remember it in a time to come. A distant church-clock began to strike five, and was sharply interrupted by the farmhouse clock breaking out into clear strokes that had an imperative sound. Prudence slipped her arm round her sister's waist, and the pair strolled slowly back to the house, the low light playing about their faces and figures, and shining in their eyes.

It was market-day, and Mr. Winterburn and his son Miles would not be at home till eight or nine; on market-days, therefore, the girls chose to have their tea served in their own sanctum-the schoolroom, as it was called still. Here, in earlier times they had studied with the gentle German governess who had tried to fill the place of their lost mother, and sorely had they missed the good Frau when she went away.

The schoolroom, with its two latticed windows looking westward, was the brightest room in the house on sunny evenings. Sunset glory streamed in through casements framed in ivy, and the old brown walls were touched with a golden glow. In this apartment one might revel in all the splendour of the dying day; fragrant breaths wandered in from the flower-beds; a beech-tree whispered softly of the coming night, and later on, an owl would come and hoot in the twilight, but no one dreaded its cry. was here that the girls read, and studied, and sewed, and kept all their favourite books, and many of their cherished possessions.

It

Five o'clock tea was a substantial meal at Thorn Farm, and thin bread-and-butter did not satisfy the

of us as well on Fridays as on Sundays?" "Now don't let's get into a religious argument," said Ellen, the housemaid. "We shall have our hands and heads full of business presently. Mrs. Chafford's train must be in, and it only takes a few minutes to drive here from the railway station."

"When is Mrs. Chafford expected to arrive?" asked Prudence, while her sister filled the cups. "This is Tuesday," said Delia, musing" she will be at Pine Cottage on Friday or Saturday."

"I think I have seen her photograph in Mr. Sorrell's album," Prudence remarked. "I remember a thin face and large dark eyes. She must be a great deal older than her cousin, Garret Montague."

"Oh, yes; a great deal older. Mr. Montague is the only child of Mr. Sorrell's younger sister; that sweet girl in the white gown, whose portrait hangs in his study. He says that Garret is like his mother."

"Poor fellow, what will he do, Delia, if he leaves the service?"

I hope Keziah Leever will suit Mrs. Chafford," said Prudence, after a pause. "That girl is sadly in want of something to do; I believe occupation will improve her temper. And as the children are not so very little, I daresay they will be quite manageable."

"They will spend most of their time with their mother," Delia replied. "In her letter to Mr. Sorrell she says that her only source of earthly happiness is found in her little ones. She has quite done with the world, and has lost all taste for society."

"Poor thing," said Prudence, with her soft, gray eyes full of pity. "We will all be very kind to her."

CHAPTER II.-JOSEPHINE CHAFFORD.

Friday came, and the little household at Pine Cottage were looking out anxiously for the arrival of the widow and her children.

Turner, the old woman who acted as cook and housekeeper, said it was a bad day for a journey. She hated Fridays; if you entered a new home on a Friday, ill luck stepped in behind you; and if you used a new broom for the first time on that day, the handle was sure to come off. Keziah Leever, now established in the house, listened to these remarks with surprise and disgust.

"After living with a clergyman all these years, Mrs. Turner," she said, "I wonder that you believe in such rubbish. My mother has taught me better than that."

"I'm as good a Christian as anybody," Turner replied. "But no one is a-going to talk me out of hating Fridays. I've seen a deal of life, and when you come to my age, Keziah, you won't think such a sight of your own opinion. Your mother hasn't taught you to respect your elders, anyhow?"

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I may have spoken out too sharply; it's a bad habit of mine," admitted Keziah, with a frankness that soothed the old woman at once. "Only, if we

"Master's all of a fidget in the dining-room," remarked Turner, rising and bestirring herself. "Poor old gentleman; he's got the kindest heart that ever I knew. Ever since he heard of Mr. Chafford's death he's been expecting his niece to come here, children and all. "This is her home, Turner,' he has said to me, scores of times. But she hasn't seemed to be in a mighty hurry to get to it." "She'll find this is a dullish place after London," said Ellen, stroking down her fresh white apron. "Hark; here's the fly coming; I can hear the wheels!"

Other ears too had heard the wheels. The Reverend Peter Sorrell, pacing up and down his little dining-room, caught the sound and stopped in the middle of his walk to draw a long breath.

Looking at his erect figure and healthy face, one would scarcely have guessed that Mr. Sorrell was drawing near his threescore years and ten. He had been an active clergyman in his earlier days until a throat disease destroyed his voice and compelled him to give up speaking in public. Now and then he read the lessons in Thistledean church if the vicar were in need of aid; and the sick and poor of the parish knew him well.

Always a man of quiet tastes, he had come to end his life in this remote village, and had lived for twelve years in Pine Cottage. His wants were few; he loved healthy out-of-door occupations and took a genuine pleasure in his garden and poultry-yard.

There was never a break in the regularity of the household routine; the master retired at ten o'clock, and the servants were in their rooms half an hour later. Breakfast was ready at eight, and after that meal there was the usual airing, a few visits to be paid to those needy parishioners who were under his especial care, and then Mr. Sorrell came home punctually at one to luncheon.

Afternoons and evenings were generally spent in intense quietness. Occasionally Mr. Fincham, the vicar, would drop in for a chat; or the curate would call, and confide his own little personal matters to Mr. Sorrell. Simple-minded as the good man was, he seemed to be everybody's counsellor and friend.

Those who had ten times his share of worldly wisdom often came to him for advice; and sins and sorrows, heart-secrets, hidden from all others, were whispered in his ears. He was a better listener than talker, and yet no man had a greater gift of soothing a wounded spirit, or comforting a despairing soul.

As the wheels drew nearer, the colour flushed over that kindly old face as if it were a boy's face still. There was a good deal of shyness in Mr. Sorrell's nature; years had passed since he had seen his niece, and there was something formidable in the idea of welcoming a lady with two children.

The fly stopped; Ellen and Keziah rushed out to the gate, and had the carriage-door open in an instant, before the driver could get down from the box.

The first to alight was a little sallow girl, whose

great dark eyes looked too large for her face. She was crumpled and dusty, poor child, after her journey, and gave a long sigh of relief on finding herself at her destination. Her brother stepped out next, a pretty little fellow, blue-eyed and curlyhaired; but too pale and weary-looking for a boy of his years. Keziah's heart warmed to him at once, and he answered her glance with a sweet, shy smile. Lastly descended the widow herself, a slender woman, rather tall, with a pale, dark skin, and large eyes like her daughter's. She moved slowly, and with a languor that was perhaps almost too pronounced; but her manner duly impressed the country servants with the idea of her fine-ladyhood.

Very deliberately she walked along the little garden-path that led to the house, her dusty black draperies hanging loosely around her, and her children bringing up the rear. Mr. Sorrell, still somewhat red with suppressed emotion, met her in the hall with outstretched hands.

"You must be very tired, my dear," he said, the kind, husky voice trembling. "You are welcome, Josephine; you have come to your home."

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"Are you ready, mother?" called Sybil's shrill voice at the door. "We want something to eat."

"Coming, darling," responded Josephine in her softest tone; but there was one thing more to be done before she left the room.

Plunging her hand into the corner of the larger trunk, she drew forth a Bible, plainly bound in Russian leather, and clasped with silver. A little shield on the cover bore the inscription:" Josephine West, from her affectionate uncle, Peter Sorrell."

This relic of her maiden days was placed conspicuously on a corner of the toilet-table; and then Josephine unbolted her chamber-door, and joined the impatient children.

It was now six o'clock, and Sybil and Walter saw with satisfaction the well-spread table in the diningroom. Mr. Sorrell's dinner-hour was seven, but he had not been unmindful of the wants of the travellers, and the children enjoyed the substantial tea that was provided. Not a single rustic dainty was wanting; the eggs, ham, and cream might have tempted the most delicate appetite, and the Winterburns had sent a jar of honey from Thorn Farm. The little Chaffords feasted in silent content, while their mother trifled with her cup and plate, and kept up an easy flow of talk.

"The Pagets are not doing very well, I fear, Uncle Peter," she said confidentially. "I wish Henry had resolved to make his income suffice for his needs instead of going in for speculations. He did not say much about his affairs, but Annie used to watch his face very anxiously when he came home from the City."

was

Glad to be alone! Josephine Chafford's first act was to untie her bonnet and fling it on the bed, the second, to open her travelling-bag and take out a spirit-flask from which she poured a draught, and drank it in haste. The flask was quickly replaced, and the bag securely locked, before she proceeded to change her attire.

Her two trunks had been carried upstairs and uncorded, before she entered the room, and it was merely the work of a few minutes to unlock one of the boxes, and get out a soft black gown, with white frills at the throat and wrists. The next thing produced was a dressing-case, and then the widow went to work at her toilet in good earnest.

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Somebody may be dropping in this eveningwho knows?" she thought. "Uncle Peter has friends, I suppose, even in a ridiculous place like this; and there may be some worth knowing."

A massive plait of dark hair was added to Josephine's scanty tresses; mysterious silver-topped bottles were opened, and presently the western sunlight shone in upon a renovated face; cheeks touched with a delicate glow, lips freshly red.

It was not, and never had been, a pretty face; the features were irregular, and there was a want of softness in the contour. But, in the world's phrase, Mrs. Chafford was a woman who "made up very well;" and she possessed a never-failing fund of self-confidence. After settling her frills, putting on a jet necklace, and shaking out her black folds, she surveyed herself with perfect satisfaction.

"Henry Paget is a pleasant fellow enough; but he lacks judgment, I am afraid," Mr. Sorrell replied; and Annie was always fond of gaiety; her tastes are expensive."

Mrs. Chafford sighed.

"I daresay the Pagets were a little too lively for you, my dear," said the old man sympathisingly. "Thistledean will suit you exactly; there will be nothing to break up the repose of your life."

"It is just what I have longed for," answered his niece, with gentle fervour. "Ever since my husband's death I have been forced into society, and people have seemed to forget that my heart was buried in India. There are so few who can enter into a widow's sorrow."

"None, perhaps; save One who raised a widow's son at Nain," said Mr. Sorrell.

Mrs. Chafford sighed again.

"I wish my husband's relatives thought more about religion, Uncle Peter," she remarked after a pause. "Dear Frank used to say that his mother and sisters lived as if there were no life beyond this world. I found them quite absorbed in pleasure."

"I thought you were not satisfied with them; your letter told me a good deal," rejoined Mr. Sorrell, with a glance at Sybil, who had finished her tea, and was listening with all her might.

"I was disappointed in their reception of me; I had expected that they would be full of sympathy and kindness, but-what is the matter, dear uncle?" "I beg pardon, my dear; but-but don't you observe that little pitchers have long ears?"

"Oh," said Mrs. Chafford, following the direction of his eyes; "they never repeat anything; and Sybil is my second seit."