CHAPTER XI.

"My flagging soul flies under her own pitch."

DRYDEN.

Her

FLEDA mused, as she went up stairs, whether the sun were a luminous body to himself or no, feeling herself at that moment dull enough. Bright, was she, to others? nothing seemed bright to her. Every old shadow was darker than ever. uncle's unchanged gloom-her aunt's unrested face-Hugh's unaltered delicate sweet look, which always to her fancy seemed to write upon his face, "Passing away!"-and the thickening prospects whence sprang the miasm that infected the whole moral atmosphere-alas, yes!" Money is a good thing," thought Fleda; "and poverty need not be a bad thing, if people can take it right; but if they take it wrong!"

With a very drooping heart indeed, she went to the window. Her old childish habit had never been forgotten; whenever the moon or the stars were abroad, Fleda rarely failed to have a talk with them from her window. She stood there now, looking out into the cold still night, with eyes just dimmed with tears-not that she lacked sadness enough, but she did lack spirit enough to cry. It was very still; after the rattle and confusion of the city streets, that extent of snow-covered country where the very shadows were motionless-the entire absence of soil and of disturbance-the rest of nature-the breathlessness of the very wind-all preached a quaint kind of sermon to Fleda. By the force of contrast, they told her what should be; and there was more yet-she thought that by the force of example, they shewed what might be. Her eyes had not long travelled over the familiar old fields and fences before she came to the conclusion that she was home in good time she thought she had been growing selfish, or in danger of it; and she made up her mind she was glad to be back again among the rough things of life, where she could do so

much to smooth them for others, and her own spirit might grow to a polish it would never gain in the regions of ease and pleasure. "To do life's work!" thought Fleda, clasping her hands-" no matter where-and mine is here. I am glad I am in my place again-I was forgetting I had one."

It was a face of strange purity and gravity that the moon shone upon, with no power to brighten as in past days; the shadows of life were upon the child's brow. But nothing to brighten it from within! One sweet strong ray of other light suddenly found its way through the shadows, and entered her heart. "The Lord reigneth! let the earth be glad!" and then the moonbeams, pouring down with equal ray upon all the unevenness of this little world, seemed to say the same thing over and over. Even so! Not less equally his providence touches all-not less impartially his faithfulness guides. Lord reigneth! let the earth be glad!" There was brightness in the moonbeams now that Fleda could read this in them; she went to sleep, a very child again, with these words for her pillow.

"The

It was not six, and darkness yet filled the world, when Mr Rossitur came down stairs and softly opened the sitting-room door. But the home fairy had been at work; he was greeted with such a blaze of cheerfulness as seemed to say, what a dark place the world was everywhere but at home; his breakfast table was standing ready, well set and well supplied; and even as he entered by one door, Fleda pushed open the other and came in from the kitchen, looking as if she had some strange spirit-like kindred with the cheery hearty glow which filled both rooms.

"Fleda!—you up at this hour!"

"Yes, uncle Rolf," she said, coming forward to put her hands upon his " you are not sorry to see me, I hope."

But he did not say he was glad; and he did not speak at all; he busied himself gravely with some little matters of preparation for his journey. Evidently, the gloom of last night was upon him yet. But Fleda had not wrought for praise, and could work without encouragement; neither step nor hand slackened, till all she and Barby had made ready was in nice order on the table, and she was pouring out a cup of smoking coffee.

"You are not fit to be up," said Mr Rossitur, looking at her-" you are pale now. Put yourself in that arm-chair, Fleda, and go to sleep-I will do this for myself.”

"No, indeed, uncle Rolf," she answered, brightly-" I have enjoyed getting breakfast very much at this out-of-the-way hour, and now I am going to have the pleasure of seeing you eat it. Suppose you were to take a cup of coffee instead of my shoulder."

He took it and sat down; but Fleda found that the pleasure of seeing him was to be a very qualified thing. He ate like a business man, in unbroken silence and gravity; and her cheerful words and looks got no return. It became an effort at length to keep either bright. Mr Rossitur's sole remarks during breakfast were to ask if Charlton was going back that day, and if Philetus was getting the horse ready.

Mr Skillcorn had been called in good time by Barby, at Fleda's suggestion, and coming down stairs had opined discontentedly that a man hadn't no right to be took out of bed in the morning afore he could see himself." But this, and Barby's spirited reply, that "there was no chance of his doing that at any time of day, so it was no use to wait"-Fleda did not repeat. Her uncle was in no humour to be amused.

She expected almost that he would go off without speaking to her. But he came up kindly to where she stood watching

him.

"You must bid me good-bye for all the family, uncle Rolf, as I am the only one here," she said, laughing.

But she was sure that the embrace and kiss which followed were very exclusively for her. They made her face almost as sober as his own.

“There will be a blessing for you," said he, "if there is a blessing anywhere!"

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If, uncle Rolf?" said Fleda, her heart swelling to her eyes. He turned away without answering her.

But that

Fleda sat down in the easy chair then, and cried. lasted very few minutes; she soon left crying for herself to pray for him, that he might have the blessing he did not know. That did not stop tears. She remembered the poor man sick of the palsy who was brought in by friends to be healed, and that "Jesus seeing their faith, said unto the sick of the palsy, 'Son, thy sins be forgiven thee." It was a handle that faith took hold of and held fast, while love made its petition. It was all she could do, she thought; she never could venture to speak to her uncle on the subject.

Weary and tired, tears and longing at length lost themselves

in sleep. When she awaked, she found the daylight broadly come, little King in her lap, the fire, instead of being burnt out, in perfect preservation, and Barby standing before it, and looking at her.

"You ha'n't got one speck o' good by this journey to New York," was Miss Elster's vexed salutation.

66 Do you think so?" said Fleda, rousing herself. "I wouldn't venture to say as much as that, Barby."

"If you have, 'tain't in your cheeks," said Barby, decidedly. "You look just as if you was made of anything that wouldn't stand wear, and that isn't the way you used to look."

"I have been up a good while without breakfast-my cheeks will be a better colour when I have had that, Barby-they feel pale."

The second breakfast was a cheerfuller thing. But when the second traveller was despatched, and the rest fell back upon their old numbers, Fleda was very quiet again. It vexed her to be so, but she could not change her mood. She felt as if she had been whirled along in a dream, and was now just opening her eyes to daylight and reality. And reality-she could not help it-looked rather dull after dream-land. She thought it was very well she was waked up; but it cost her some effort to appear so. And then she charged herself with ingratitude, her aunt and Hugh were so exceedingly happy in her company.

"Earl Douglass is quite delighted with the clover hay, Fleda," said Hugh, as the three sat at an early dinner. "Is he?" said Fleda.

"Yes—you know he was very unwilling to cure it in your way, and he thinks there never was anything like it now."

"Did you ever see finer ham, Fleda?" inquired her aunt. "Mr Plumfield says it could not be better."

"Very good!" said Fleda, whose thoughts had somehow got upon Mr Carleton's notions about female education, and were very busy with them.

"I expected you would have remarked upon our potatoes before now," said Hugh. "These are the Elephants-have you seen anything like them in New York?"

"There cannot be more beautiful potatoes," said Mrs Rossitur. "We had not tried any of them before Fleda, had we?"

"I don't know, aunt Lucy-no, I think not."

you went

away,

"You needn't talk to Fleda, mother," said Hugh, laughing -"she is quite beyond attending to all such ordinary matters -her thoughts have learned to take a higher flight since she has been in New York."

"It is time they were brought down, then," said Fleda, smiling; "but they have not learned to fly out of sight of home, Hugh."

"Where were they, dear Fleda?" said her aunt.

"I was thinking, a minute ago, of something I heard talked about in New York, aunt Lucy; and, afterwards, I was trying to find out by what possible or imaginable road I had got round to it."

"Could you tell?"

Fleda said, "No," and tried to bear her part in the conversation. But she did not know whether to blame the subjects which had been brought forward, or herself, for her utter want of interest in them. She went into the kitchen, feeling dissatisfied with both.

"Did you ever see potatoes that would beat them Elephants?" said Barby.

"Never, certainly," said Fleda, with a most involuntary smile.

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I never did," said Barby. "They beat all, for bigness and goodness both. I can't keep 'em together. There's thousands of 'em, and I mean to make Philetus eat 'em for supper-such potatoes and milk is good enough for him, or anybody. The cow has gained on her milk wonderful, Fleda, since she begun to have them roots fed out to her."

"Which cow ?" said Fleda.

"Which cow ?-why-the blue cow-there ain't none of the others that's giving any, to speak of," said Barby, looking at her. "Don't you know-the cow you said them carrots should be kept for?"

Fleda half laughed, as there began to rise up before her the various magazines of vegetables, grain, hay, and fodder, that for many weeks had been deliciously distant from her imagination.

"I made butter for four weeks, I guess, after you went away," Barby went on;-"just come in here and see and the carrots makes it as yellow and sweet as June-I churned as long as I had anything to churn, and longer; and now we live on cream-you can make some cheesecakes just as soon as