Hilda knew there were such things, for she had read about them, and subscribed to them; of course she had never even imagined it possible that she could be connected with one. Flossie said, “No, no, Octa; it is too bad to pounce at once upon a new comer. We will find Hilda work when she wants it, and not before. Ah, here's Louis! I was to tell you he walked home with Harry Baskerville, to get some of their grapes for poor Sally Dent; ours are not quite ripe."

The stalwart young man whom Hilda had noticed in the pew, and whose absence she had not remarked, now walked in, and was introduced by Mr. Arnison as "M. Louis Michaud, my partner's son." He bowed like a Frenchman, rather stiffly, Hilda thought, and again she decided that he was almost, if not quite, ugly. He took his seat with alacrity, and began to talk about the invalid for whom he had fetched the grapes. There was no lack of conversation, and though everybody was in the best spirits, and cheerfulness abounded, there was nothing like levity or trifling, and the meal was not prolonged, because the elder girls were anxious to start for the Sundayschool, which was conducted in an outbuilding of Mr. Arnison's, from two to three, when the afternoon service commenced.

The vicar, it appeared, did not patronise Sundayschools, but he did not interfere with the Arnisons, as they collected children on their own premises, and paid all costs themselves, and, moreover, never kept them from any service of the church. All the girls, except the two youngest, speedily vanished, followed by M. Louis, who seemed to have his class, like the others; and last of all Mr. Arnison took his departure, explaining that he was working superintendent. Stella and Olive went off to the nursery with Jacky, and Hilda was left alone with her aunts Dorothy and Rose.

"There are in this loud stunning tide
Of human care and crime,

With whom the melodies abide
Of the everlasting chime;

Who carry music in their heart,

Through dusty lane and wrangling mart,

Plying their daily task with busier feet,

Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat."

AND both the aunts indulged in a little nap, while Hilda sat, almost afraid to stir, on a low chair by the window, with an open volume on her knees-a volume in which she could not find anything to interest her, as it was a treatise on the Textile Arts, about which she had never in the least concerned herself. She looked out into the beautiful garden, and wished she were there, in those shady walks, under the spreading cedar, or among those brightlycoloured beds and borders, where blossomed every lovely scion of the soft Indian summer. The velvet turf looked tempting, there were vistas seen between the arching trees and through the thinning foliage of the copperbeeches, green banks, and towering shrubs, bowery nooks, glimpses of a fernery, an avenue of tall, stately elms, and something that glistened and shimmered not very far off like falling water.

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I should so like to go out there," she thought to herself, as she listened to the ticking of the clock on the mantel-piece, and to the gentle breathing of the sleepers. "I wonder if I might venture! Oh, yes, I am sure I might; this seems to be a very free, comfortable, and informal household. Uncle Arnison is wonderfully nice, and Aunt Rose looks charming. If I could only slip away without disturbing those two! I am tired myself, but not in the least sleepy. Let me see if I can unfasten the window." No sooner said than done; the catch was a very simple

one, and went quite easily, and in another minute Hilda was in the open air and under the beautiful cedar which she had so much admired. It was the grandest specimen of the kind she had ever seen; its dark, graceful branches swept the emerald sward for an immense circumference, and on the higher boughs hung clusters of fine full purplish cones.

"What a beautiful tree!" cried Hilda, as if to some bystander. "I could not have imagined anything so splendid; I feel as if I were looking up into some solemn cathedral dome. It is like being in a church. Surely there is something about cedars in the Bible. Oh, yes! the cedars of Lebanon, of course, that were used for the building of Solomon's temple; and there is something else, I am pretty sure, only I cannot remember. If I am to hear the Bible read every morning and every evening, I shall soon know rather more about it. How strange this new life is! All those things which I have been taught to consider of the greatest importance ignored, as it were; and those things about which I have never so much as concerned myself, made paramount. At least, they are somehow mixed up with everything! These Grey House and Blue House people seem to have interwoven their religion with their common life—a sort of woof and warp fabric, so intermingled that they fall to pieces if separated. It's very odd; I am not sure but that I may come to like it. There's something grand in being really earnest.”

After which soliloquy, Hilda strolled away across another lawn into a beautifully kept garden, where the trim box-edged borders were brilliant with asters, dahlias, late roses and stocks, verbenas, scarlet geraniums, and heliotropes, gay nasturtiums, French marigolds, and scarlet salvias, with many other flowers of the lingering summer and the early autumn side by side. Then she came to a long, straight terrace, bounded on one side by a stone wall, on which fruit-trees were trained, and on the other by a sloping bank of finest turf, at the bottom of which was a small parterre full of the choicest flowers, and a large pond covered with water-lilies, water-plantain, arrow-head, and other familiar aquatic plants. At the

end of this mossy walk was a wilderness, the resort of every wild flower and fern of the district, with some others that were not indigenous to the soil. It was, indeed, a lovely garden-a garden of old romance, a garden that might have its own stories of the past, of the present, and of the days to come. Hilda wondered whether her cousins had any lovers, whether they had already learned any of those life-lessons which only the heart's experience can teach. The sweet Alice, the brilliant Florence, the gentle, calm-browed Irene--what did they know of the turmoil and trouble and strange reverses that were in the world? They seemed, Hilda thought, almost like happy children, upon whom no shadow of care had fallen. She herself felt quite old; her youth had faded from her, she scarcely knew how; she seemed years older than these fair girls, and yet she was younger than Alice and Flossie, and only several months Irene's senior.

The church bells were ringing for afternoon service, and close at hand rose the grand old tower from whence the music came. The daws and rooks, roused by the pleasant sound, began wheeling round and round the grey tall battlements, and about the elms that shaded from view the factories and dye-houses. There was quite a concert of robin redbreasts, and just a little soft rustle among the apple-trees, near which Hilda had paused to listen. Ought she not to return to the house and accompany her aunts to church? Two services a day would be a novelty to her, and it might-nay, possibly would-be expected of her. And yet she was really tired, and felt little inclined to join the congregation now assembling. While she was debating what she should do, she saw one of her cousins approaching; which of them she scarcely knew, but she thought it must be Irene.

"Are you come to look after the runaway ? she said, as cheerfully as she could, but feeling a little cross in spite of herself at the idea of so close a supervision.

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'No," replied Irene, for it was she. "Mamma and aunt told me you were somewhere in the gardens, and Aunt Dorothy said she supposed you were not going to church again this afternoon. It is the law of Indigo

House that we all go in the morning, unless prevented by illness, but we, the grown-up children, at least, may please ourselves in the afternoon; for papa has a service of his own in the evening, though when there is a collection several of us are expected to show ourselves at the Wesleyan chapel, in the Wynd yonder."

"But you are not Wesleyans?"

"Strictly speaking, certainly not. You see we are a little unfortunate at Endlestone; we cannot care much for the services of the church, though we do try to make the very best of them. And we cannot quite settle ourselves at the chapel, though papa sometimes says he is not sure but that it is our duty-such of us as could conscientiously do it-to join with the Wesleyans here, who are doing nearly all the work that is done in the place. Our vicar will not allow us to labour with him; he is at least fifty years behind his own Church of England. Still, papa and mamma, having both been brought up Church people, cling to the old habits and usages; and if Mr. Peters would only interest himself in something beyond fishing and gardening, grudging everything that is over and above the two Sunday services, and those of Christmas Day and Good Friday—I think we should all be content."

"You are not going to church this afternoon?'

very

"No; school has given me a headache; the room was full and warm, and the children rather noisy, so I came out here for the cool air. It is not my Sunday at the organ."

"You are Irene, are you not?

"Yes; I dare say you are confused at first- -so many of Do you like to stay out, or shall we return to the house?"

us.

"I like to stay here; it is so sweet and calm, and quite warm for the season."

"This is generally a delightful time in the Northcountry, only the mornings and evenings are cold.

There

have been sharp frosts on the hills and in the open for the last few nights."

"But your garden looks lovely."

"We are very much sheltered here, and we have been