ards and forwards behind them, supplying every want with quick and
delicate intuition, aiding Marged Hughes' clumsy attempts at waiting,
so deftly, that Essec Powell's dinner was a complete success.

Towards the end of the meal a young and susceptible preacher caught
sight of the girl, and without ceremony opened a conversation with her.
Turning to his host he asked:

"And who is this fair damsel?"

"Who? where?" said Essec Powell, looking surprised. "Oh! that's my
niece Valmai; she is living with me since Robert my brother is dead."

"Well, indeed! You will be coming to the meetings, I suppose?"

"Yes," said Valmai, "I have been there all day; the singing was lovely!"

"And what did you think of the preaching?" said a very fat man, in a
startlingly bass voice. He was carving a fowl. "That is the important
point," he said, and the wing came off unexpectedly. "Young people are
apt to think most of the singing," here he re-captured the wing and
landed it safely on his own plate. "Did you hear my sermon?" he asked,
between the mouthfuls of the fast disappearing wing, fixing his eyes
upon poor Valmai, who began to wish herself under the elder bushes
again. "My text was--" but fortunately here the company rose.

After a long grace they dispersed, and turned their faces once more
towards the sloping field.

No one noticed Valmai--no one remembered her in the hurry to return to
the preaching field--no one, she thought, would know or care whether
she was present or not; and as she drew on her gloves and tied on her
broad-brimmed straw hat, there was a little sadness in the curves of
her mouth, a little moisture in the deep blue eyes, as alone she took
her way after the preachers to the hillside. As she went she recalled
the last open-air meeting she had attended, nearly two years ago, in
that far-off land, where her father and mother had walked with her in
loving companionship, when she had been the centre of their joys and
the light of their home, and as she followed the winding path,
hymn-book in hand, her heart went back in longing throbs to the father
and mother and the old home under the foreign sky, where love had
folded her in its warm embrace; but now--she was alone! no one noticed
whether she came or went, and as groups and families passed her,
wending their way to the hillside, she answered their nods and
greetings with pleasant kindliness, but still found herself alone!

"It will always be like this