ke at times the dullest heart with awe and reverence. The sounds
were subtle and scarcely defined. The rustle of a bird in the nest,
where she was guarding her newly-fledged young ones, a whisper of the
breeze faintly stirring the leaves of a silver birch, whose white trunk
shone out in the dim twilight, for the days were nearing midsummer and
May was just melting into June.

'Yes,' Bryda said, 'I might gain much, but should I not lose more? And
yet there is life, life in the city, and here it is sameness, and life,
real life, is scarce felt. I wonder how it will be.'

Bryda was about to close the lattice when her ear caught sounds more
audible than the faint whisper of the breeze and the rustle of the
leaves. Voices low and angry came from the kitchen, which was below her
window.

The voices grew louder, then a door was sharply shut, and Flick, the big
watch-dog, gave a low growl and the gate of the farmyard clicked again
and again as it swung violently backwards and forwards before it finally
closed.

The dwellers in farmhouses a hundred and twenty years ago on the height
of the Mendips were early to bed and early to rise. It was therefore
unusual to hear anyone coming or going between nine and ten o'clock.

'I wonder who it was?' Bryda thought. 'And there is grandfather coming
up to bed. How slowly he comes, and--what can be the matter?'

For, as the heavy footsteps reached the landing by the girl's bedroom,
there was a pause, and then a prolonged sigh, which was more like a
groan.

Bryda stood transfixed, her hand on the latch of the door, which she had
not courage to lift.

Another heavy sigh, and then the slow footsteps were heard getting
fainter and fainter as the old man passed along the passage to his room.

Then all was quiet, and Bryda, still haunted with the fear of something
unusual and strange, lay down by Betty's side and was soon asleep.

How often some cherished wish when fulfilled comes to us, not as the
phantom of delight, as we pictured it, but with a grave and sober mien
which makes us scarcely recognise that the desire which is granted is
'the tree of life,' for the fruit too often has a bitter taste, or ere
we can grasp it is turned to dust and ashes. Bryda's longings were to be
satisfied, but not as she had imagined. The way was to be made plain for
her departure from Bishop's Farm; the home of her childhood and early
girlhood was to be hers no longer.

Her grandfather went up to his