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"I am afraid Alice is most to blame," interposed Miss Flora. "Go away, Sinclair, and take off the things before they are spoilt."

Her nephew was gracefully retiring in obedience to orders when Miss Delia looking after him, forgot for a moment his enormities in admiration of the display on his broad shoulders.

"Oh, dear! how very effective those poppies are. Stand still, Sinclair-yes, they are very effective, very handsome indeed; don't you think so, Flora? Perhaps a little more floss silk would have improved them, but it is hard to say. Now what price should you affix to that piece, Mr. More-five guineas?"

"Not less than five guineas certainly,” replied he, stiffly regarding the trophy through his glasses.

"Turn round, Sinclair, let aunt Flora look at her famous cushion," said Alice, her courage beginning to revive; but Miss Flora, conscious of the visitor's cold disapproval of the spectacle cried out, "No, no;" she had seen her own cushion often enough, and they were to go away.

As the pair vanished both the old ladies smiled, but Mr. More sighed audibly.

"Children will be children," said Miss Flora with gentle consideration.

"Yes, we cannot expect to put old heads on young

shoulders," added Miss Delia, "though perhaps since Sinclair has taken his degree and come out a high wrangler, Sunshine should learn to treat him with more respect; but he encourages her, and that is the truth."

Perhaps it was: at all events he did not look an unwilling victim.

That was Alice's last prank at home for some time to come, however. A few days afterwards Mrs. Sara Grandage and Rachel left Claymire, and carried her with them as far as London, when she was again safely deposited in Miss Cornwell's care. Sinclair Ferrand remained little more than a week behind them, and then pruned his wings for a long flight in the East. After he was gone the people at Brookfall and the rectory led a very quiet life, and would often have been thankful for a visit from him, or for a capricious gleam of their Sunshine. When they were absent no single fault they had was remembered-nothing but their youth, their brightness, and their gay company.

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CHAPTER THE FOURTH.

RACHEL WITHERS MAKES A THIRD START IN LIFE.

Take her for all in all we shall not look upon her like again.

I.

WHEN Mrs. Sara Grandage and Rachel Withers went home to Prior's Bank the harvest was just beginning, and the moors were in bloom. This was Carrie Martin's leisure season, and she was glad to make her holiday with them. She stayed a month, enjoying long rides, idleness, pleasant company, good books and an excellent table as a person living habitually in dull London lodgings cannot help enjoying the delights of country life. When she left, the leaves were at the change, and the cold dark days of winter were advancing. But at Prior's Bank a gloomier home-cloud attended their drawing on than any outside.

Bittersweet fell ill, and about midway in November took to her room, and soon after to her bed. It

VOL. II.

32

began by-and-by to dawn on Rachel's mind that she would never quit it again. She did not suffer pain, but she lost her strength and was quite feeble, though even then her spirits did not fail her. Dr. Beane gave it as his opinion that she would linger a long while. The slow winter wore through, spring budded, summer bloomed, and autumn faded again, and she still lived. Rachel's was a weary vigil, but she kept it with devotion. Miss Delia Ferrand and Sinclair came down into Hurtledale to see their kinswoman soon after the young man's return from the East, but Bittersweet was glad to know them gone again. Prior's Bank was dull with its mistress bed-ridden.

A second Christmas went over, and another new year began similar to the last.

One night in January Rachel sat thinking by the firelight while her godmamma lay wakeful, watching her between the curtains. Presently she was bidden to read the Address of Nature in one of Montaigne's Essays "Que philosopher c'est apprendre à mourir," a great favourite of the old lady's, which Rachel had read so often that she knew it by heart. When it was ended they had a grave talk which Bittersweet began. Rachel would have checked her and cheered her, but she refused to be silenced.

"My

dear child," said she, "how little you profit by philosophy. I am going my way satisfied-I have not made out many things clearly, but enough to live by and die by. I am growing tired after travelling these seventy-eight years, and am not sorry to be within sight of rest. But now I want to know what you will do when I am gone?"

Rachel sat on the edge of the bed, her hand lying on her godmamma's white, withered fingers. She did not immediately answer, and Bittersweet, looking wistfully in her face, asked again, "What shall you do, Dumpling, when I am gone?"

Then Rachel told her she had no plans for herself -absolutely none. She fancied her old friend felt relieved; she was silent for a minute or two, and then she went on. "I should not have liked to hear you had; nobody likes their death to be made a nucleus for new plans, but mine cannot be far off now, my feet are so cold; and therefore I want to give you a bit of advice, my dear. Have a home of your own. Living about amongst your kinsfolk might be pleasant for a time, but not for a permanence. As far as means go, you will be comfortably independent, and a woman has more consideration in the world and greater liberty who possesses a home of her own, than one who spends

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