The lifelike presentment was like the opening of the flood-gates of sorrow to Francesca. She stood before it gazing as if her gaze could force the silent lips to speak to her; then she knelt down, and kissed the face with flowing tears and words of fond endearment. Martha turned away from grief so poignant; she occupied herself in opening the other windows; in altering the position of chairs; in a kindly and rather noisy distraction, not devoid of sympathy, though expressed so strangely. And she neither hurried nor interfered with the passionate sorrow of the distressed girl. And perhaps that was the best of all sympathy, for in a short time Francesca's bitterly sweet orison was made. She took from her throat a square of white silk, and covered the dear face with it. Then she went to Martha and said simply:

"Thank you."

She would have liked to kiss the cold, gray face above her. To hcr it was not repellant. But Martha held herself away from any such demonstrations. She only

said:

"If ta hes done, we can go downstairs again. I can't ask thee to stay any longer. I hev a lot to do today."

Francesca was standing by the piano. She opened it and touched the notes with a slow, uncertain hand. They fell thin and strange into the empty air. Yet the melody was a familiar one to both women. Mrs. Leigh had often paused at her work, or sat still with her sewing in her hand, to listen to it. She stood watching the girl at the instrument, her face catching color, her eyes light; the notes growing stronger, sweeter, firmer, till at

the last strain she found strength in her heart to voice

the melody

"Oh, so white! Oh, so soft! Oh, so sweet is she!"

The words fell one by one, with all the festive magnificence of accompaniment that love had given them. Martha had heard Lancelot ring them out in such clear, happy tones, as only birds in spring can reach. Francesca's voice was but their thin, far-away echo. But something in the effort had comforted her. She rose, and Martha put her gently aside, and began to close and cover up the instrument.

"I wouldn't hev let any one but thee put a finger on it," she said; "no, not even Queen Victoria hersen."

Francesca was standing at a table on which lay a book open, and turned face downward. She thanked Martha, and then lifted the book. It was a compilation of poems from various sources, but one was broadly marked, and looked as if it had been purposely left to attract attention.

"What is it?" asked Martha.

"A book of poetry."

"He was always reading such nonsense.

It did him

a deal of harm. Love! Love! Love! As if life was nothing but a kiss and a song and such miff-maff!" "The poem he has marked so broadly-look at it— it is not about love. It is about 'Haunted Houses.'" "Niver!"

"It is, really. See how he has penciled those four verses. Read them."

"I hevn't my spectacles. I don't believe I could read poetry, unless it was maybe a hymn of Bishop

Ken's. 'Haunted Houses!' I niver heard of poetry iike that. I wish ta would read it to me. It must be varry queer stuff."

Then Francesca lifted the book again and read in a soft, solemn voice the verses marked by Lancelot :

"All houses wherein men have lived and died

Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the floors.

"We meet them at the doorway, on the stair,
Along the passages they come and go,
Impalpable impressions on the air,

A sense of something moving to and fro,

"There are more guests at table than the hosts
Invited; the illuminated hall

Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
As silent as the pictures on the wall.

"We have no title deeds to house or lands;

Owners and occupants of earlier dates,

From graves forgotten, stretch their dusty hands,
And hold in mortmain still their old estates.

"That beats all!" said Martha.

"Is that poetry!

know!

My lass, it is true as gospel! I I know! 'Hold in mortmain!' Of course. Leigh Farm is held in dead hands, and no living ones can alienate it. That is the truth. Give me the book. I wouldn't wonder but it was put there for me by them that know. I am obliged to thee for showing me such a bit of comfort. Come; we will go now."

She was averse to speak after this incident, though she clasped the book tightly and took it away with her. * Longfellow.

And Dick was waiting; there was no excuse for longer delay. But Francesca felt that she had gained a little good will, and she ventured to ask, as she said "Goodby":

"Mother, if you do hear anything—will you let me know?"

"I shall not hear. Don't thee hev any such false hope."

66

But if you do? He may write. Can we not at least hope he will?"

"To be sure, if we are set on that kind of folly-we can hope to catch larks if ever the heavens should fall. Thou wilt get a wetting; take care and not get a cold. That will be worse than love-I can tell thee that!"

And she turned dourly in, seeming almost to leave a shadow where she had stood.

A

CHAPTER XII.

HOPE AND TWO SAD WOMEN.

Ah, who shall help us from overtelling
That sweet, forgotten, forbidden lore!
E'en as we doubt in our hearts once more,

With a rush of tears to our eyelids welling,

Love comes back to his vacant dwelling.—Austin Dobson.

Going to die! For who shall waste in sadness,
Shorn of the sun, the very warmth and light,
Miss the green welcome of the sweet earth's gladness,
Lose the round life that only love makes bright;
There is no succor if these things are taken;
None but Death loves the lips by love forsaken.
-Austin Dobson.

BOUT the middle of September the squire and his bride returned to Atherton Court. Great preparations were made for this event, and Loida took a special pride in delivering up her household charge with that kind of éclat which spotless purity and elaborate adornment can give. The new mistress of Atherton stepped across a threshold whose antique beauty was radiant with the flowers gathered that morning-dahlias and asters, lavender and marigold, and all the treasures of bronzing ferns and the autumn amaryllis.

She stepped across it with a smile of irresistible attraction-a smile that deprecated premature judgment, that asked for affection, and insinuated all it asked. She was a very pretty woman, quite forty years of age,