ment, as a shallow,
prosaic character, who cannot enter into the depth of her feelings, and
has not attained the height of her experience. And there are heights
and depths in Lysken that Blanche will never reach."

Mrs Tremayne found her opportunity the next evening. She was alone
with Blanche in the parlour; and knowing pretty well what every one was
doing, she anticipated a quiet half-hour.

Of all the persons to whom Blanche was known, there was not one so well
fitted to deal with her in this crisis as the friend in whose hands she
had been placed for safety. Thirty years before, Thekla Tremayne had
experienced a very dark trial,--had become miserably familiar with the
heart-sickness of hope deferred,--during four years when the best
beloved of Robin Tremayne had known no certainty whether he was living
or dead, but had every reason rather to fear the latter. Compared with
a deep, long-tried love like hers, this sentimental fancy over which
Blanche was making herself cross and unhappy was almost trivial. But
Mrs Tremayne knew that trouble is trouble, if it be based on folly; she
thought that she recognised in Blanche, silly though she was in some
points, a nobler nature than that of the vain, selfish, indolent mother
from whom the daughter derived many of the surface features of her
character: and she longed to see that nobler nature rouse itself to
work, and sweep away the outward vanity and giddiness. It might be that
even this would show her the real hollowness of the gilded world; that
this one hour's journey over the weary land would help to drive her for
shelter to the shadow of the great Rock.

Blanche sat on a low stool at Mrs Tremayne's feet, gazing earnestly
into the fire. Neither had spoken for some time, during which the only
sounds were the slight movements of Mrs Tremayne as she sat at work,
and now and then a heavy sigh from Blanche. When the fifth of these was
drawn, the lady gently laid her hand on the girl's head.

"Apothecaries say, Blanche, that sighing shorteneth life."

Blanche looked up. "I reckon you count me but a fool, Mistress
Tremayne, as do all other."

"Blanche," said her friend, "I will tell thee a story, and after that
thou shall judge for thyself what account I make of thee."

Blanche looked interested, and altered her position so as to watch Mrs
Tremayne's face while she was speaking.

"Once upon a time, Blanche,--in the days of Queen Mary,--there was a
priest that