to do well."

"Yes, yes, to be sure," answered Mr. Congreve, retreating to the corner
and employing both hands and an immense handkerchief to wipe away the
tears. "Has the child everything that she wants, Olive? I--God bless my
soul! she looks half dead already, as though she had been starved and
treated like a dog! Confound my eyes! but then I must cry; I'd like to
take a good out and out bellow, I would, indeed; I haven't felt so
stuffed with tears for fifty years. Have you sent word to your mother?"

"No; I wanted to ask you about it. Ernestine is out of danger, and yet,
if mama knows she is found and so ill, it will make her sick with
anxiety and waiting, so I thought we had better wait until she is able
to be taken home, then write."

"Just so, exactly; you're right, no doubt. I hope the dear child can be
moved to-morrow, for this place is like a musty chicken coop; I wouldn't
put my worst enemy's dog in such a room, and I think I'll go down and
blow off my feelings by telling the man who runs this shanty, just what
I think of him;" and away went the excited old gentleman in a hurry,
after telling Olive once more to spare no expense, if the dear child
wanted anything.

The next day Ernestine was taken to Congreve Hall.

How many times had the girls thought of Ernestine, with her beauty, her
grace, and queenly little airs, as being in Congreve Hall. How they had
imagined her ornamenting its stately rooms, sweeping through the great
halls, and queening it to her happy heart's content, a fit inmate to its
splendor.

Now, on a bed, that could be lifted from the carriage, by two careful
servants, and slowly taken in at the great entrance, wan, wasted, and
helpless, Ernestine was going into Congreve Hall at last.

CHAPTER XIX.

COMING HOME.

"We haven't had a letter from Olive this week," said Bea, breaking a
silence that had fallen upon them, as they sat sewing in the cheerful
sitting-room. "How long she has been gone! Isn't it most time for her to
be coming home, mama?"

"She was to stay as long as she was enjoying herself, and pleasing Uncle
Ridley," answered Mrs. Dering. "I hardly thought she would stay so long
on account of her studies, but from what she writes about the scenery
and gallery of pictures at Congreve, I suppose she is having a little
artistic revelry that is very pleasant."

"Well, she has forever lost place in my eyes," said Kat severely, "for
not snubbing that chap. 'Cousin Rog