up my own life, if by doing so I could make your life a happier one," said the poor woman almost passionately.

"Hush, mother!" cried Mary, reproachfully; "you make me hate myself when you say such dreadful things. I am not always unhappy, dear; and, after all, the troubles are no harder for me to bear than they are for the others."

Ay, but they are harder for you, Mollie; you are so different from the other lassies. And sometimes, when I look at you, it seems as though my heart must break," continued Mrs. Fenwell, in a strangely bitter tone.

"You are too good to me, mother," said Mary, gently. "Yon have often told me that God knows what is best for every one of us, and what He sends us must be right, of trouble or of joy. I try to think of your words, dear, when my bad fits come on;only-some times I forget. Kiss me, mother, and say that you will forgive me again."

Mrs. Fenwell kissed Mollie's sweet face with a greater tenderness than she ever showed to Jean or Anna. "You said just now that I was good to you, Mary. Say it again, dear child; say that I have tried always to be a good mother to you, my darling."

"You are the best and dearest mother that a girl ever had," cried Mollie, earnestly; "the very, very best! Are you satisfied now, mother?"

"Yes, I am satisfied. Thank God!" said the weary little woman, with a brightened face.

Mollie regarded her mother for a moment with a somewha puzzled expression. "You are tired out, mother," she said, gently, "and it is my fault. You must sit still and rest now, while I watch the cake and put the kitchen tidy. Sit down here, in father's armchair."

But instead of obeying her daughter, Mrs. Fenwell hurriedly left the room, and Mollie heard her footstep as she wearily ascended the stairs to her own chamber, the door of which she closed and fastened behind her.

"What a wicked girl I am ejaculated Mollie, as she began hastily to clear the table from the remnants of the children's tea; "but I will turn over a new leaf from this very day. I will be happy and busy like Jean is, and try to be perfectly contented with my life of work and worry!"

And Mollie caught up her broom and began to sweep the stone floor of that humble kitchen as though she meant on the spot to carry her good resolution into effect. Yet, an hour later, when all the little ones were fast asleep, and Mary's daily duties being ended, she sat down to rest awhile in the dim twilight of the old porch, the sad shadow crept once more over her sweet face, and

a heavy sigh showed that her trouble was not quite overcome yet, or her heart at rest.

CHAPTER II.-A TALK ON THE HILLSIDE.

"How does it look, Jean?

"It looks well enough," responded Jean, regarding the farm parlour with some surprise, as she stood in the doorway. "Did you do all this, Mollie ?"

"Of course I did," replied Mollie, who with flushed cheeks, was bending over the wide fireplace, which she had tastefully decorated with sprays of trailing ivy and clusters of mountain-ash berries. The little parlour looked bright with flowers, for in every available corner Mollie had arranged clusters of sweet blossoms and graceful ferns. Mrs. Anderson would be a fastidious lady indeed if this fresh bright little room failed to please her. Mollie was evidently pleased with her work, for she regarded it all with sparkling eyes, as she came and stood by Jean.

"You look pleasant for once, Mollie," observed her sister bluntly. "You have enjoyed wasting your time over this, I dare say."

"It wasn't a waste of time to try to make the lady's room look nice. It was dingy enough before I brought the flowers in. What's the time, Jean ?"

"Nearly five, I think."

"Then she will be here almost directly. You had better make haste, Jean; the children are making a dreadful noise, and baby's screaming is worse than ever. Mrs. Anderson will be frightened to hear them, if they are indoors when she comes."

"All right, I'm going now," said Jean, who had promised to take all the little ones away from the house during the hour in which Mrs. Anderson had informed them she might be expected to arrive at Fernycleave. So the little farm looked peaceful and still, when a little later the unusual apparition of a travelling carriage was seen, its single horse toiling wearily over the rough, stony hill which led to the house. The solitary occupant of the vehicle looked eagerly from the window when at last the tired horse stopped, and stood panting, just outside the green, garden gate. And the sight which met the lady's eyes was a pleasant one, and one which was destined to linger in her memory for many days to come. Pretty Mary Fenwell was coming shyly down the garden path, between the brilliant lines of many coloured hollyhocks. She wore her usual dress of dark blue staff, half hidden by a spotlessly white apron, and on her uncovered head the evening sunlight was falling in slanting rays through the rose-tinted blossoms. Her pretty cheeks were deeply flushed, and her great, dark eyes sparkled brightly with the excitement of re

ceiving the new-comer alone. Mrs. Anderson wondered, as many a one had done before her, at the natural grace and uncommon beauty of this uncultivated little moorland girl.

"Do you live here ? Are you to be my little maid ?" she asked, in some surprise, bending from the carriage as Mollie approached her, and stood shyly, holding back the garden gate. Mary looked up timidly into the lady's eager face. It was pale and delicate-looking, but so gentle and sweet, that the girl's susceptible heart was taken captive at once, and she answered eagerly, "Oh, yes, if you will let me; I will do anything for you,

ma'am."

"That is kind," said the lady, with a smile. servant of the house, then, my child?"

"Are you the

Mollie's head was thrown back a little proudly. "No," she replied, gravely; "I am Farmer Fenwell's eldest daughter. We keep no servant; Jean and I do all the work-with mother."

"I beg your pardon," said Mrs. Anderson, courteously. "You will forgive me, I am sure; I know so little of country life." Mollie's ruffled feelings were soothed immediately, and she led the way through the stone porch, and up into the bright, flowery room above, with a new and strange pleasure in her heart.

"Ah! what a sweet, peaceful spot," exclaimed Mrs. Anderson, in a tone of quiet satisfaction, as she approached the open window, and stood looking out upon the pretty, wild country which surrounded Fernycleave.

The woodland trees were growing bright with autumn glories, and beyond them rose the summit of the great Cleave, from which the little farm took its name. The sun was slowly disappearing behind it now, and its last golden rays brightened the purple of heather and gilded the russet-brown of many a faded fern.

Mollie gazed admiringly at the lady's thoughful face, and noted with wonder the rare gems that flashed and sparkled on her white hand, as it rested on the window-sill. There was a natural grace and true refinement about the new-comer such as Mary had witnessed only once before to-day in her short life Bat the memory of that one bright summer hour had never left her, and it had filled her heart with pretty fancies and beautiful imaginations of the great world which lay beyond her own humble sphere.

"Well! what's she like, Mollie?" queried Jean, when an hour later she entered the kitchen, followed by the small noisy tribe of boys and girls, who for the past two hours had been trying her patience to the utmost while she kept guard over them in the blackberry field.

15-2

"Oh, Jean, she is beautiful!" exclaimed Mollie, enthusiastically. "I have never seen anyone at all like her before, excepting perhaps once," she added hesitatingly.

"You mean the painting man, I suppose," said Jean, contemptuously. "I don't believe he was much of a gentleman, although he did paint your picture up on the Cleave. He ought to have paid you well for all the time he made you waste, sitting on a rock, and holding a bunch of ferns while he put you into his picture. And you know he never offered you a penny."

"He knew better than to offer money to me," said Mollie, flushing deeply. "That very thing showed me that he was a true gentleman."

"He didn't show good taste then when he chose to paint you that day in your old blue gown and thick shoes," said Jean, laughing loudly. "What a fright you must have looked, Mollie, with your hair all blowing about in the wind! Well, never mind, you'll never see the man again, I guess."

"No, never again," said Mary, gently; "and so you and I will not talk about him, Jean."

"I'm sure I don't want to," replied Jean, crossly. "What plagues these children are, to be sure," she cried, turning impatiently to the unruly little party behind her. "Anna, take your hand out of Matty's pocket; you know she doesn't like it; and Mattie, you shan't give the baby any more blackberries; you'll make him sick."

"Children, you must try to be quiet," said Mary, very gently, as she unfastened Mattie's sun-bonnet. "There is a pretty lady upstairs, and if you are good and quiet she will stay here for a little while, but if you make such a terrible noise you will frighten her so much that she will go home again almost directly."

At Mollie's news a great silence fell on the little group, and curious Jean took advantage of the unusual quiet to continue her questions on the subject of the new comer, which the little ones had interrupted.

"You haven't told me what Mrs. Somebody is like now, Mollie."

"She is beautiful, Jean. I told you that," said Mary, with a slight sigh.

"Yes! But how is she dressed? What is the colour of her gown? I suppose it is satin ?" said Jean, eagerly.

"I think not; but I don't know, Jean."

"Not know the

silly," cried Jean. remember, Mollie."

colour of her gown?

Well! you must be a "Wasn't it a yellow one? Come now, try to

"It was something soft and beautiful, I know that, Jean, for it made no rustle as it swept across the carpet. But it wasn't yellow. I didn't see any colour."

"No colour! Well, that's good! I don't think much of your lady, Mollie. If I was rich I'd wear a yellow gown, and it should have red spots on it, like little moons; and I'd have a purple bonnet with pink roses round it!"

'Well, Mrs. Anderson's dress is not like that," said Mary laughing. "But she looks a real lady, Jean. And I don't seem to think she'll like to stay here very long; she'll soon get tired of us and our rough ways, I'm afraid."

But in her last supposition Mollie was mistaken. The wild beauty of Fernycleave, and the unsophisticated simplicity of its inhabitants, pleased Mrs. Anderson so well that she seemed inclined to make a lenghtened stay at the farm. Of course she saw very little of what Mary termed the rough ways of the family. For Mollie kept the promise which she had made when Mrs. Fenwell agreed to let her two best rooms, and she was ever Mrs. Anderson's most devoted attendant.

Mrs. Fenwell was a timid, shrinking little woman, and so overburdened with the weight of her own family cares that any additional duties would have well-nigh crushed her. And Jean stoutly refused from the first to become a waiting-maid to "the fine proud lady," as she persisted in calling their summer boarder. She would take Mollie's share of the hard work downstairs, and keep the children as quiet as their rebellious spirits would allow. But she shunned the door of the parlour as persistently as though the room had been in the possession of a wild animal, instead of the refined and gentle lady whom every day Mollie admired more enthusiastically, and waited upon with a greater devotion.

Mrs. Anderson met Jean one day, as the girl, armed with two empty pails, was returning from the unromantic duty of feeding the pigs. Jean would fain have passed the lady without any sign of recognition, but Mrs. Anderson, seeing how the girl was bur dened, kindly held back the garden gate, while she passed through it, speaking at the same moment a kind word of greeting, which however, Miss Jean scarcely acknowledged.

"Are you Jean ?" she inquired, kindly, "my little Mary's sister ?"

"Yes, I'm Mollie's sister, sure enough," replied the girl, with a short laugh, as she caught sight of some surprise in the eyes that were scanning her face. "I suppose you wouldn't have guessed it ? " she added, looking somewhat defiantly at Mrs. Anderson.