ou. I'm
told you are the most interesting person who ever came to this little
town."

Pamela laughed. "There I am sure you have been misled. Priorsford is
full of exciting people. I expected to be dull, and I have rarely been
so well amused."

Mrs. Hope studied the charming face bent to her own. Her blue eyes were
shrewd, and though she stood so near the end of the way she had lost
none of her interest in the comings and goings of Vanity Fair.

"Is Priorsford amusing?" she said. "Well" (complacently), "we have our
points. As Jane Austen wrote of the Misses Bingley, 'Our powers of
conversation are considerable--we can describe an entertainment with
accuracy, relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh at our acquaintances
with spirit.'"

"Laugh!" Jean groaned. "Pamela, I must warn you that Mrs. Hope's
laughter scares Priorsford to death. We speak her fair in order that she
won't give us away to our neighbours, but we have no real hope that she
doesn't see through us. Have we, Miss Augusta?" addressing the daughter
of the house, who had just come into the room.

"Ah," said Mrs. Hope, "if everyone was as transparent as you, Jean."

"Oh, don't," Jean pleaded. "You remind me that I am quite uninteresting
when I am trying to make believe that I am subtle, or 'subtile,' as the
Psalmist says of the fowler's snare."

"Absurd child! Augusta, my dear, this is Miss Reston."

Miss Hope shook hands in her gentle, shy way, and busied herself putting
small tables beside her mother and the two guests as the servant brought
in tea. Her life was spent in doing small services.

Once, when Augusta was a child, someone asked her what she would like to
be, and she had replied, "A lady like mamma." She had never lost the
ambition, though very soon she had known that it could not be realised.
It was difficult to believe that she was Mrs. Hope's daughter, for she
had no trace of the beauty and sparkle with which her mother had been
endowed. Augusta had a long, kind, patient face--a drab-coloured
face--but her voice was beautiful. She had never been young; she was
born an anxious pilgrim, and now, at fifty, she seemed infinitely older
than her ageless mother.

Pamela, watching her as she made the tea, saw all Augusta's heart in her
eyes as she looked at her mother, and saw, too, the dread that lay in
them--the dread of the days that she must live after the light had gone
out for her.

During tea Mrs. Hope had many questions to ask abo