a downright good maid, Agnes, and she is
bounden to your mother and yon, and so is her father: and though, if
Selwick were to turn you forth, your home is at Minster Lovel, as my
child here knows,"--and Aunt Joyce laid her hand lovingly on that of
Edith--"yet while we be here in this short wilderness journey, 'tis best
not to fall out by the way. Let things be, children: God can take
better care of His world and His Church than you or I can do it."

"Eh, I'll meddle with nought so good," responded Temperance, heartily.
"If the lad come to no worse than that, he shall fare uncommon well, and
better than he deserveth. As for the maid, I'm not quite so sure: but
I'll hope for the best."

"The best thing you can do, my dear. `We are saved by hope'--not as a
man is saved by the rope that pulleth him forth of the sea, but rather
as he is saved by the light that enableth him to see and grasp it. He
may find the rope in the dark; yet shall he do it more quicklier and
with much better comfort in the light. `Hope thou in God,' `Have faith
in God,' `Fear not,'--all those precepts be brethren; and one or other
of them cometh very oft in Scripture. For a man cannot hope without
some faith, and he shall find it hard to hope along with fear. Faith,
hope, love--these do abide for ever."

The party for Selwick had set off, with some stir, in the early morning,
and the quiet of evening found the friends left at the Hill House
feeling as those left behind usually do,--enjoying the calm, yet with a
sense of want.

Perhaps Mr Marshall was the least conscious of loss of any of the
party, for he was supremely happy in the library over the works of
Bishop Jewell. In the gallery upstairs, Lettice and Agnes sat in front
of the two portraits which had so greatly interested the former on her
previous visit, and talked about "Aunt Anstace" and "Cousin Bess," and
the blessed sense of relief and thankfulness which pervaded Agnes's
heart. And lastly, in the Credence Chamber, Aunt Joyce lay on her
couch, and Lady Louvaine sat beside her in the great cushioned chair,
while Edith, on a low stool at the foot of the couch, sat knitting
peacefully, and glancing lovingly from time to time at those whom she
called her two mothers.

"Joyce, dear," Lady Louvaine was saying, "'tis just sixty years since I
came over that sunshine afternoon from the Manor House, to make
acquaintance with thee and Anstace. Sixty years! why, 'tis the lifetime
of an