bête noir. She had tried in vain to know her, and had striven hard to make good her entrance to the citadel, where she had a faint idea that something valuable might possibly be found. But her labour was in vain; and on the failure of each successive attempt she had felt how hard it was to be for ever rolling up the stone which was certain to fall back, a chilling weight upon her efforts and her labours.

The Archdeacon was more cautious than had been his wife in pronouncing an opinion on the new-comer; for, good man and charitable Christian as he was, he had not failed to perceive the something in her countenance which revealed to him that l'amour avait passé par là. He was many years older than his wife, who was a mere child when she passed into his hands; and he, dreading the world and the world's ways, had ever kept her as far removed as possible from the busy humbug of men, and from the chance of tasting certain fruits that grow on the tree of knowledge fruits which women, even little women so pure of heart as was Esther Morton, are ever on tiptoe to reach.

But there were other causes, besides the one written on her beautiful face, that roused the suspicions of the Archdeacon as to the previous life of Mrs. Langton. The Vicar had never seemed able to render a satisfactory account of the circumstances attending his acquaintance with her. He had not only told what was evidently a lame story, but he had not come promptly to the assistance of that story when the offspring of his imagination had halted by the way. All these things puzzled the Archdeacon; but he determined to watch Helen and her proceedings narrowly, and, unbiassed

by any conjectures of his own, to decide the case upon its own merits.

The result was favourable to the object of his investigation, and convinced him that whatever might have been the short-comings of her past life, they were now (to the best of her power) fully redeemed. It was not only that she did to the utmost the work for which she was remunerated (though that in itself is a duty not always faithfully discharged), nor was it that her private conduct was ever and always irreproachable; but it was far more than this that caused the good Archdeacon to acknowledge to his wife, that Mrs. Langton was not unworthy of their esteem. In other scenes he had met her, and had learned to know her worth; for in the home of the afflicted, and beside the bed of the dying, her kindly presence had seemed to bring a comfort and a brightness beyond price. From her little store, the Schoolmistress had also drawn succour for the needy; for she had not now to learn that the pill of good advice is easier swallowed when gilded, and that the visitor who comes empty-handed is rarely welcome. With her there was neither ostentation nor feigned humility, for in all her acts she seemed to say, that she had done only that which it was her duty to do.

"Mother," said Mrs. Morton's little daughter Ruth to her one day, "why does Mrs. Langton never kiss me? She kisses Davie often, and he's a boy."

"Perhaps, dear, she thinks you are too old to care for kisses. Davie is hardly more than a baby, you know."

"But, mother," said Ruth, returning to the subject after a pause given to reflection on the subject_of the

endearments bestowed upon the youthful Davie, "why do you never shake hands with Mrs. Langton? Isn't she a lady?"

The question was a simple one, but still the mother found it hard to answer. She would not explain to the child that the contact with her hand had been though unobtrusively, yet so invariably shunned by Helen, that she had at last ceased to make any demonstration of a civility which she knew would not be accepted. At an early stage of their acquaintance she had, on one occasion, found, on her entrance into the Schoolmistress's little parlour, the Vicar's wife already established there, and busy with parochial accounts of books, coals, and blankets. Willing to prove to Mrs. Fanshawe in how high an estimation she held their young hostess, the Archdeacon's kindly wife held out her hand to her in greeting; but, as usual, it was not accepted nay, more, it was refused with marked avoidance, and a deep and ceremonious courtesy was her only acknowledgment of the proffered token of cordiality and

esteem.

This was strange, and the more so as Helen had ever appeared grateful for acts of kindness done, and for any warm feeling of friendship expressed towards her.

Meanwhile, and during the two years that had elapsed since she had been installed in her new office, Mrs. Langton had found that she was considered by the Vicar's wife as under her especial authority and management. Guided and controlled by that active lady, she assisted in her self-imposed duties, dealing out petticoats and doling out bonnets, and being, in short, as much her curate or help, as was the melan

choly-looking Mr. Doall to the sleek and comfortable. Vicar.

But though Helen had no objection to the work, inasmuch as to be useful was her delight, yet she did think the Vicaress's constant visits almost too great a tax upon her patience; and never did she feel more rebellious against the autocratical Mrs. Fanshawe than when those visits interfered with her free enjoyment of Mrs. Morton's society.

It was a few days after the one on which little Ruth had asked her mother the question to which she could not satisfactorily reply, that the latter, leading her little Davie by the hand, made her appearance in Helen's parlour. Filled with flowers was that tiny chamber, and among them, seated at the open casement and busied with some homely work, was the fairest flower of them all at least in the estimation of the happy child, who, flinging himself into her arms, covered her face with kisses.

"I am come," said Mrs. Morton, as soon as the boy's violent demonstrations of affection were sufficiently calmed down to allow the object of them to reply to questions asked "I am come to make you promise to be of our haymaking party to-morrow. The children all declare that it will not be a real happy day without you. Ask her, Davie;" and Davie, once more throwing his little arms round her neck, whispered to "Nellie" that she must come.

"How I should enjoy it!" exclaimed Helen, as she returned his caresses; "but to-morrow is such a busy day!"

"Never mind the busy day. Take a holiday, it will do you good."

"But what would Mrs. Fanshawe say to such an act of independence and insubordination?" remarked Helen, with a smile.

'Something too bad to repeat, I dare say," said merry Esther Morton.

There was something ominous in the words, and Helen shuddered imperceptibly.

"That gloomy, dreadful woman!" continued her visitor. "If she would but enjoy existence a little herself, she might possibly allow you to do the same."

"She does certainly contrive to make a shadow in a sunshiny place," said Helen, with a half-sigh. "But, indeed, dear Mrs. Morton, I fear I must ask you to excuse me, for I cannot break through the rules she has laid down for me.'

"The children will think you very unkind," cried the impetuous little woman. "But still I cannot believe you will continue to refuse me, when I ask for your compliance as a personal favour to myself."

Helen was very sorry, but very firm. It went to her heart to disappoint and annoy, by her refusal, one who had shown her such marked kindness and consideration; but, from some unfathomable motive, her resolution remained unchangeable. The Archdeacon's

gentle wife was as angry as it was in her nature to be. She was vexed for her children and, perhaps, a little jealous of the encroachments of the Vicaress in the government of the parish; and thus, for at least a week, she nursed her wrath in her warm heart, till it was very hot indeed. She had hoped and expected that the contumelious Schoolmistress would write her a note full of penitential excuses; but when no such missive came, she removed the cover from the vessel of her