for a lady's hand to be
white; but travelling from the hand to the face, Mrs. Caxton's eye
found too little colour there. Eleanor's cheeks were not generally
wanting in a fine healthy tinge. The tinge was fainter than usual
to-night. Nevertheless she was eating strawberries with apparent
regularity.

"Eleanor, I do not understand this sudden recall. Have you any clue?"

"No ma'am, not the least."

"What arrangements have you made, my dear?"

"For to-morrow morning, ma'am. I had no choice."

"No, my dear, you had not; and I have not a word to say. I hope Mr.
Rhys will come back before you go."

Absolute silence on Eleanor's part.

"You would like to bid him good bye before you leave Plassy."

There was a cessation of any attention to the strawberries, and
Eleanor's hand took a position which rather hindered observations of
her face. You might have heard a slight little sigh come from behind
Mrs. Caxton's tea-pot.

"Eleanor, have you learned that the steps of a good man are ordered by
the Lord? My love, they are not left to our own disposal, and we should
not know how to manage it. You are going to do the Lord's work, are you
not, wherever you may be?"

"I hope so."

"Then trust him to place you where he wants the work to be done. Can
you, Eleanor?"

Eleanor left her seat, came round and knelt down by Mrs. Caxton's side,
putting her face in her lap.

"It is not like a good soldier, dear, to wish to play general. You have
something now to do at home--perhaps not more for others than for
yourself. Are you willing to do it?"

"Don't ask me if I am willing, aunt Caxton! I have been too happy--But
I shall be willing."

"That is all we live for, my dear--to do the Lord's work; and I am sure
that in service as in everything else, God loves a cheerful giver. Let
us give him that now, Eleanor; and trust him for the rest. My child,
you are not the only one who has to give up something."

And though Mrs. Caxton said little more than that word on the subject
of what Eleanor's departure cost herself, she manifested it in a
different way by the kind incessant solicitude and care with which she
watched over Eleanor and helped her and kept with her that night and
the next morning. Eleanor made her preparations and indulged in very
few words. There was too much to think of, in the last evening's
society, the last night in her happy room, the last morning hours. And
yet Eleanor did very little thinking. She was to go