"It is not so long since I was there."

"No: but you didn't stay long enough."

Anthony glanced up. There was a

good deal in Rachel's look just then.

"So you think I should go again?" he asked, smiling to himself in a satisfied way. "I should either go or write if I were you."

"Write! I should never write myself into anybody's good graces,-not if I were to

write for a dozen years.

Why, you

ought to have known better, Rachel.

There

never were such wooden letters as mine."

"They are rather dry," Rachel said, smiling and making an odd expressive face as she disappeared.

CHAPTER VI.

THE SOUNDS IN THE SHELL.

"O morning star that smilest in the blue,

O star, my morning dream hath proven true :

Smile sweetly thou! my love hath smiled on me.” TENNYSON: Gareth and Lynette.

A SWEET dream it was, but vague and unfinished; yet the impression lasted all through the day.

She had been wandering in darkness somewhere; alone and friendless. There was no pathway; the rain made sad music in the trees; her heart had plained wildly for shelter and protection. Then through the darkness a strong hand had been stretched

out to guide her. The scene had changed.

There had been warmth and light, and a strange and beautiful kindness. There was no recognition of any place or person; only of the wondrous kindness. She moved about when she awoke as one who had dreamt a poem. The straitened life at the old house in the lane had suddenly widened. There was no visible change. There was the same spotless cleanliness, the same barely tolerable tidiness. The polished dresser was guiltless of dust, the brass pans underneath glittered in the morning sun, the patched threadbare carpet was free from speck or stain. And there was no change in the monotonous routine.

Peggy came down to breakfast a little late as was usual; Miriam scolded, and then they quarrelled, and that was usual too. All these things were as they had been; yet

nothing was the same.

There was a new

felicity, nameless and wordless; a subdued, tender, expectant feeling that cast a glamour over all.

After breakfast Miriam washed the teacups. This she did herself always. Jenny might put away the sugar-tongs, and the three worn silver tea-spoons, but she was rarely entrusted with anything of a friable nature. Then Miriam disappeared. "Away you go, Madame Prim," Miss Peggy said, in a whisper, closing her eyes and throwing her

head back a little.

And Madame Prim went. She was in the habit of absenting herself from the kitchen for long periods, and it was only lately that Jenny had found out how these intervals were spent. Going upstairs on an errand for Miss Peggy she had discovered the tiny

creature perched on the window-sill in her own room, surrounded with tools and materials for stay-making. She had learnt this trade in her youth, and had followed it for a time; but it was hard work, and they could live without it, so it had been given up gladly. She had returned to it soon after Jenny came to Netherton. Madame Prim had been angry with Jenny for not knocking at the door, angrier still when she begged, at a later date, to be allowed to carry out her original intention of earning her own bread.

"And what may you be going to do this morning, Miss Tippety-witchett?" Peggy asked of Jenny. She had quite a talent for bestowing names.

"I think I shall dust the parlour," Jenny said, turning away with a pleasant dreamy smile.