nd Rosamund could not induce her to come to a decision, and
suffered agonies at the thought of being turned out of Little Cloisters.
When Dion came back, of course, a flitting from Welsley would have to be
faced, but to be driven away without that imperative reason would indeed
be gall and wormwood. There were days when Rosamund felt unchristian
towards Mrs. Dean, upon whom she had never looked, but with whom she had
exchanged a great many cordial letters.

In August, under the influence of a "heavy cold, which seems the worse
because of the heat," Mrs. Browning had agreed to let Rosamund stay on
for another month, September; and now Rosamund was anxiously awaiting
a reply to her almost impassioned appeal for a six months' extension of
her lease. Canon Wilton was again in residence in the Precincts, and
one afternoon he called at Little Cloisters, after the three o'clock
service, to inquire what was the result of this appeal. Beatrice was
staying with her sister for a few days, and when the Canon was shown in
she was alone in the drawing-room, having just come up from the garden,
where she had been playing with Robin, whose chirping high voice was
audible, floating up from below.

"Is your sister busy?" asked the Canon, after greeting Beatrice.

Beatrice smiled faintly.

"She's in her den. What do you think she is doing?"

The Canon looked hard at her, and he too smiled.

"Not writing again to Mrs. Browning?"

Beatrice nodded, and sat gently down on the window-seat.

"Begging and praying for an extension."

"I've never seen any one so in love with a place as your sister is with
Welsley."

He sat down near Beatrice.

"But it is attractive, isn't it?" she said.

She turned her head slowly and looked out of the open window to the
enclosed garden which was bathed in mellow sunshine. The sky above the
gray Cathedral towers was a clear and delicate, not deep, blue. Above
the mossy red wall of the garden appeared the ruined arches of the
cloisters which gave to the house its name. Among them some doves were
cooing. Up in the blue, about the pinnacles of the towers, the
rooks were busily flying. Robin, in a little loose shirt, green
knickerbockers, and a tiny soft white hat set well on the back of
his head, was gardening just below the window with the intensity that
belongs to the dawn. His bare brown legs moved rapidly, as he ran from
place to place carrying earth, a plant, a bright red watering-pot. The
gardene