will be very pleasant, my child," said Mrs. Rothesay, who was
so accustomed to see with Olive's eyes, and to delight in the vivid
pictures painted by Olive's eloquent tongue, that she never spoke like
a person who is blind. Even the outward world was to her no blank of
desolation. Wherever they went, every beautiful place, or thing, or
person, that Olive saw, she treasured in memory. "I must tell mamma of
this," or "I must bring mamma here, and paint the view for her." And so
she did, in words so rich and clear, that the blind mother often said
she enjoyed such scenes infinitely more than when the whole wide earth
lay open to her unregardful eyes.

"I wonder," said Olive, "what part of S----shire we are in. We really
might have been fairy-guided hither; we seem only aware that our journey
began in London and ended at Farnwood. I don't know anything about the
neighbourhood."

"Never mind the neighbourhood, dear, since we are settled, you say, in
such a pretty house. Tell me, is it like Woodford Cottage?"

"Not at all! It is quite modern and comfortable. And they have made
it all ready for us, just as if we were come to a friend's house on a
visit. How kind of Mrs. Fludyer!"

"Nay! I'm sure Mrs. Fludyer never knew how to arrange a house in
her life. She had no hand in the matter, trust me!" observed the
sharply-observant Christal.

"Well, then, it is certainly the same guiding-fairy who has done this
for us, too. And I am very thankful to have such a quiet, pleasant
coming-home."

"I, too, feel it like coming home," said Mrs. Rothesay, in a soft weary
voice. "Olive, love, I am glad the journey is over; it has been almost
too much for me. We will not go back to London yet awhile; we will stay
here a long time."

"As long as ever you like, darling. And now shall I show you the house?"

"Showing" the house implied a long description of it, in Olive's
blithest language, as they passed from room to room. It was a pretty,
commodious dwelling, perhaps the prettiest portion of which was the
chamber which Miss Rothesay appropriated as her mother's and her own.

"It is a charming sleeping-room, with its white draperies, and its old
oak furniture; and the quaint pier-glass, stuck round with peacocks'
feathers, country fashion. And there, mamma, are some prints, a 'Raising
of Lazarus,' though not quite so grand as my beloved 'Sebastian del
Piombo.' And here are views from my own beautiful Scotland--a 'Highland
Loch,' and