noon with Aunt Ellen. Mr. Elsmere,
what did you think of Aunt Ellen?'

Elsmere started, and could not help smiling into the young girl's
beautiful eyes, which were radiant with fun.

'A most estimable person,' he said. 'Are you on good terms with her,
Miss Rose?'

'Oh dear, no!' she said, with a little face. 'I'm not a Leyburn; I wear
aesthetic dresses, and Aunt Ellen has "special leadings of the spirit" to
the effect that the violin is a soul-destroying instrument. Oh
dear!'--and the girl's mouth twisted--'it's alarming to think, if
Catherine hadn't been Catherine, how like Aunt Ellen she might have
been!'

She flashed a mischievous look at him, and thrilled as she caught the
sudden change of expression in his face.

'Your sister has the Westmoreland strength in her--one can see that,' he
said, evidently speaking with some difficulty.

'Strength! Oh yes. Catherine has plenty of strength,' cried Rose, and
then was silent a moment. 'You know, Mr. Elsmere,' she went on at last,
obeying some inward impulse--'or perhaps you don't know--that, at home,
we are all Catherine's creatures. She does exactly what she likes with
us. When my father died she was sixteen, Agnes was ten, I was eight. We
came here to live--we were not very rich of course, and mamma wasn't
strong. Well, she did everything: she taught us--we have scarcely had
any teacher but her since then; she did most of the housekeeping; and
you can see for yourself what she does for the neighbours and poor folk.
She is never ill, she is never idle, she always knows her own mind. We
owe everything we are, almost everything we have, to her. Her nursing
has kept mamma alive through one or two illnesses. Our lawyer says he
never knew any business affairs better managed than ours, and Catherine
manages them. The one thing she never takes any care or thought for is
herself. What we should do without her I can't imagine; and yet
sometimes I think if it goes on much longer none of us three will have
any character of our own left. After all, you know, it may be good for
the weak people to struggle on their own feet, if the strong would only
believe it, instead of always being carried. The strong people _needn't_
be always trampling on themselves,--if they only knew----'

She stopped abruptly, flushing scarlet over her own daring. Her eyes
were feverishly bright, and her voice vibrated under a strange mixture
of feelings--sympathy, reverence, and a passionate inner admir