ink I have. A very good old lady, who has set up schools for
the poor children. My mother knows all about her. Will you like going to
Barley Hill?"

"Barley Wood," Joyce corrected. "Yes, I think I shall. Charlotte is to
come also; and I dare say I shall like it when I am there, and it may do
me good. You know Aunt Letitia always calls me 'a little rustic.' Of
course I _am_, but I do not know that it is of such great consequence as
Aunt Letitia thinks."

"It would be a pity, indeed, if you were anything but what you are,"
Gilbert said earnestly. "A change could hardly be an improvement."

"Oh, do not say that," Joyce said. "I want to _know_ more, and though I
read everything I can in father's library, I do not get any new books.
Ralph helps me with Latin, and Piers and I learn French together, though
I expect our pronunciation would make you laugh. We have just read
Madame de Stael's 'Corinne' and a story called 'Matilde,' which
Charlotte lent me. Is not Piers wonderful?" she asked; "he is so happy,
and have you seen his collection of moths and butterflies? You must come
into his room and see them."

"Yes, I should like to do so very much, if you will be showwoman."

He liked to hear her talk of her simple home pleasures and interests; he
liked to watch the ever-changing expression of her lovely face; he felt
within himself that this hour on the hill-side, was to remain a bright
memory with him for many a day, to which he would recur with pleasure,
and over which no cloud could come.

At last the sound of the boys' voices in the copse below, roused them
both from their earnest talk, and Joyce's name rang through the still
summer air--

"Joyce! Joyce! tea has been ready ever so long. Mother does not like
waiting. Do come!"

"Yes, pray come, Joyce; there is no one to pour out tea, or cut the
cake. Mother says you ought not to have put sugar on the cake," said
Bunny. "I am so glad you did."

Joyce flew swiftly down through the wood, and by the time Mr. Arundel
and her brothers had reached the house, she was at her post behind the
large bronze urn, and taking up her accustomed duties with a face so
bright and winning, that her mother forgot her vexation, merely saying:

"I like punctuality at meals, Joyce, especially on Sunday; for it puts
the servants out if they are driven."

"Why, my Sunshine," her father said, "where have you been hiding? We
thought you were lost."

"Joyce has been sitting under the fir-tr