e music does not disturb Mrs Snow, _I_ don't
mind it."

"I like it," said Mrs Snow. "The music is cheerful this dull day.
Though I would like a song better."

"By and by you shall have a song. I would just like to go over this two
or three times more."

"Two or three times! Two or three hundred times, you mean," said Fanny.
"There's no end to Rose's playing when she begins."

Then she wandered into the back parlour again.

"Are you going to write all day, Graeme?"

"Not all day. Has Mrs Snow come down?" asked she, coming forward. "I
have been neglecting Harry lately, and I have so much to tell him, but
I'll soon be done now."

"My dear," said Mrs Snow, "dinna heed me; I have my knitting, and I
enjoy the music."

"Oh! dear! I wish it didn't rain," said Fanny.

"My dear, the earth was needing it," said Mrs Snow, by way of saying
something, "and it will be beautiful when the rain is over."

"I believe Graeme likes a rainy day," said Fanny. "It is very stupid, I
think."

"Yes, I sometimes like a rainy day. It brings a little leisure, which
is agreeable."

Fanny shrugged her shoulders.

"It is rather dismal to-day, however," said Graeme. "You look cold with
that light dress on, Fanny, why don't you go and change it?"

"What is the use? I wish Arthur were coming home. He might have come,
I'm sure."

"You may be sure he will not stay longer than he can help," said Graeme;
turning to her letter again.

"And my dear, might you no' take a seam? It would pass the time, if it
did nothing else," said Mrs Snow.

But the suggestion was not noticed, and partly because she did not wish
to interfere, and partly because she had some curiosity to see how the
little lady would get out of her discomfort, Mrs Snow knitted on in
silence.

"Make something nice for tea," suggested Rose, glancing over her
shoulder.

"That is not necessary _now_," said Fanny, shortly.

"Oh! I only suggested it for your sake--to pass the time," said Rose.

It lasted a good while longer. It lasted till Graeme, catching Mrs
Snow's look, became suddenly aware that their old friend was thinking
her own thoughts about "Mrs Arthur." She rose at once, and shutting
her desk, and going to the window where Fanny was standing, said with a
shiver:--

"It _is_ dismal, indeed. Fanny, look at that melancholy cat. She wants
to come in, but she is afraid to leave her present shelter. Poor wee
pussy."

"Graeme, don't you wish Arthur