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a card from her ancient friend, Mrs. Conolly, for one of her esthetic teas, she felt exceedingly glad, and enjoyed some of the sweetest pleasures of anticipation in looking forward to the evening.

And it was amusing, though nobody looked much amused. Standing about in close rooms is uneasy work for those new to it; Rachel found it so. She had no precise expectations as to what she should see and hear, but she still, in her ignorant, countrified imagination, did fancy it would be something decidedly worth remembering. None of the great gods were present, but there were several good artists, several minor authors, and one important little critic who was a pink of neatness. Also, there were foreigners of many nations, and learned ladies not a few. Amongst others there was Mrs. Lipsome, whose books for children were Rachel's early delight, ample and gracious, with sweet words on her tongue, and a jewel on her forehead; there was a French poetess of unpoetical proportions, and a young lady novelist, slender, graceful, and gushing. Then she heard the exquisite drawl of a very fine gentleman telling two fine ladies how he had "harnessed the donkey before the horse," but what came of the arrangement was lost to her; then she heard the critic speak to a friend and probable coadjutor on

some forthcoming "slaughter of the innocents," which she interpreted to mean, cutting up of the minor poets. And a very white hand presented her with a cup of tea, and the person to whom the hand belonged was that light of the pulpit and drawing-room saint, Mr. Gilsland. She was better pleased to see her old friend and schoolfellow Carrie Martin, who dropt in for a few minutes after the opera, quizzed Rachel on her innocent bewilderment in the novel scene, yawned and went her way home to bed.

After that, Rachel was not sorry to go too; she saw how entertaining the entertainment might be to those who understood the mystery of it, which she did not; but Bittersweet, remarking afterwards that these gatherings at Mrs. Conolly's were not nearly so good as twenty or thirty years ago, she excused herself for finding it rather dull, and thought perhaps she had reason for the opinion.

The next day she betook herself to visit Carrie Martin, one of the very few remaining to her of the band of enthusiastic friends with whom she corresponded at the date of her return to Hurtledale with John, now nearly seventeen years ago. They exchanged letters and kept up their intimacy still. Carrie Martin had settled herself in London, and was

leading a life quite to her own taste-free and laborious in the direction that suited her. It was always predicted amongst her young companions that she would turn out something odd, and here was she now a genuine specimen of the literary workingwoman-writing to order on such uninteresting subjects as strikes, pawnbroking, early closing, and sanitary reform, and doing it well too-so well that her articles were one and all credited to a masculine hand. Rachel felt no awe of her wisdom, but was very fond of Carrie on the principle of opposites agreeing; for no two persons could have been more dissimilar.

Bittersweet, who now saw her goddaughter's quaint friend for the first time, was half disposed to be angry with her for keeping Carrie's virtues all these years to herself: the vivacious old lady was charmed with the younger one, and they would sit and talk together about the world and its ways in a satirical strain that was enough to make quiet folks' hair bristle. They were like flint and steel striking out sparks, and firing the tinder of all manner of flimsy fashions and prejudices.

The result of the acquaintance was an invitation to Carrie to visit Prior's Bank in the autumn; in the meanwhile, Mrs. Sara Grandage and Rachel were going

down to Claymire for a month while Alice was at Brookfall for her holidays, and before Sinclair Ferrand set off for his year's tour in Egypt and Syria. The opportunity of being at Claymire while these two were at home was thought by the excellent aunts quite inducement enough to bring their cousin Sara down into Devonshire; and when she was tired of town, thither she turned her steps with Rachel, Clip, and Hanson in attendance, and took possession of the same lodgings as she had occupied on the occasion of her previous visit ten years before.

CHAPTER THE THIRD.

THE SUNSHINE OF BROOKFALL.

A creature not too bright or good

For human nature's daily food;

For transient sorrow's simple wiles,

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

WORDSWORTH.

I.

THERE were few places prettier or more thoroughly English in home character than the cottage at Brookfall when summer was in its prime. In winter it was too much alone and looked desolate under the shadow of the down, but on a June morning it was like a picture out of romance-land with its wealth of flowers and fantastic overgrowth on thatched gable and rustic verandah. The brook ran down with diminished force at this time of year, but the miniature cascade was so lovely amongst the fresh ferns and airy silver birches that Rachel Withers stood watching its foamy gambols for ever so long,

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