ed thoroughly as a relation,
but she dreaded the remarks and inquiries of strangers, and wished to
avoid them. The society of the cathedral town was not exciting nor
tempting, and she made no great sacrifice in preferring her pretty
schoolroom to the dinners and evening parties of the Close; but she did
so in a very becoming manner, and delighted Sarah with stories of the
great world, and of her travels.

There could be no doubt that father, mother, and daughter all liked and
valued her extremely, and she loved Mrs. Prendergast as she had never
loved woman before, with warm, filial, confiding love. She was falling
into the interests of the cathedral and the parish, and felt them, and
her occupations in the morning, satisfying and full of rest after the
unsatisfactory whirl of her late life. She was becoming happier than she
knew, and at any rate felt it a delusion to imagine the post of governess
an unhappy one. Three years at Southminster (for Sarah strenuously
insisted that she would come out as late as possible) would be all peace,
rest, and improvement; and by that time Owen would be ready for her to
bring his child out to him, or else--

Little did she reck of the grave, displeased, yet far more sorrowful
letter in which Honor wrote, 'You have chosen your own path in life, may
you find it one of improvement and blessing! But I think it right to
say, that though real distress shall of course always make what is past
forgotten, yet you must not consider Hiltonbury a refuge if you grow
hastily weary of your exertions. Since you refuse to find a mother in
me, and choose to depend on yourself alone, it must be in earnest, not
caprice.'

CHAPTER XIV

These are of beauty rare,
In holy calmness growing,
Of minds whose richness might compare
E'en with thy deep tints glowing.
Yet all unconscious of the grace they wear.

Like flowers upon the spray,
All lowliness, not sadness,
Bright are their thoughts, and rich, not gay,
Grave in their very gladness,
Shedding calm summer light over life's changeful day.

_To the Fuchsia_.--S. D.

Phoebe Fulmort sat in her own room. The little round clock on the
mantelpiece pointed to eleven. The fire was low but glowing. The clear
gas shone brightly on the toilette apparatus, and on the central table,
loaded with tokens of occupation, but nea