turned to her book.

She was not conceited, Marguerite Bouverie. She thought nothing of her superb hair, excepting that it was very troublesome to keep tidy, or of her well-shaped head, so beautifully put on her shoulders, and her large dark blue eyes, and her brilliantly fair skin. She admired. intensely the richer colouring of her friend Blanche, and would have willingly changed with her for the sunny brown hair, the deep-set gray eyes, and the bright ever-varying expression of Blanche's face, which she declared made her like no one else she had ever seen, and far more lovely. But as Mr. Tremaine sat there, watching the golden head bent over the work, it struck him that Marguerite Bouverie was a very beautiful girl; and he was so engaged watching her that the time passed by very quickly to him as she, all unconscious of his gaze, read eagerly on.

And in the kitchen little Blanche with her

away,

a small doll's cup beside her, full of flour, making a pudding, covering her own tiny hands with paste, treating her pinafore to a large amount, and putting as many currants into her mouth as into her pudding.

"Now see, cooky," said Blanche, with a laugh of triumph as she laid the paste on the board and rolled it out, "it's as light as love. See how it bubbles after the pin."

"I dare say, missy," said cooky, smiling; "but it is not baked yet.”

"No! I know; but if it does not turn out well, I shall be sure it is the bad baking." "And if it does I shall be sure it is the good baking."

"Oh! now, that is a shame. If it wasn't for Marguerite waiting for me I'd bake it myself-that I would. Now for the pie-dish. Oh! dear, this lifting it on is so difficult-and, look there now, that piece of meat has poked

"Ah! you see you can't go alone yet,” said cook, coming to the rescue. "You've rolled it too thin. You must put a beautiful flower over that. Here are the paste cutters. Now make something pretty."

"My dear girl," said Mrs. Wilmont, putting her head in at the door, "Marguerite has been here some time, and Mr. Tremaine is here, too. Make haste."

"I do wish people wouldn't come when I'm cooking. Look here, cook; you make the smart thing, and egg it over, and all that, won't you? I must go and wash my hands."

"All right, missy; but don't you go saying it's your pie, you know."

"Oh! yes, I shall. You're only like the boy that blows the organ, you know; I'm the player."

"Yes, miss, that's just it. You couldn't do without me."

who, with the gravest, most absorbed face, was still plastering her little fingers with the stiffest of paste, occasionally pushing back her hair from her forehead, leaving traces of the pudding there also.

"Et-me'll be dood.”

"Very well," and running away to wash her hands, and take off the large cooking apron she had carefully covered her dress with, Blanche ran against Mr. Tremaine just coming out of the drawing-room. They both started back with a mutual "I beg your pardon;" and Blanche flew up-stairs, laughing, and wondering whether the new curate took her for the general servant. She told her story directly to Marguerite, making many apologies for having so long detained her.

"I was so happy with my book I forgot the

friend the new curate."

"No friend of mine, dear. Until I appeared before him in my apron and sleeves tucked up I never saw him except in church. What did he want, mamma, dear?"

Only the school subscription."

"Oh! is that all? How slow!"

"My dear child, what did you think he'd come for ?"

Something new on foot in the parish a new church, or a school-treat, or something exciting." Marguerite laughed.

"You call such things exciting?" she said.

"Well, yes, I do; anything that concerns the welfare of the parish. I am most loyal to that, I assure you," answered Blanche, merrily.

"You would make a good clergyman's wife Blanche."

Her face changed at once, and she answered quietly,