hair. She turned her back upon the sunlight, and stood waiting with her eyes upon the floor.

By and by the handle moved, turned; there was a little rustling as of fresh linen, a little rattling as of heavy beads; the door opened, and the "mother" appeared.

Sir Archie's sister. One could see that at a glance; though, upon reflection, nothing could be in better contrast than the masculine boldness of the man's face with the feminine softness of the woman's. Here were sweet, tender, pitiful blue eyes, and a brow smooth and serene under its spotless linen band; no latent fire; no lines to show where frowns had been. The face was oval and softly moulded, and very winning in its exquisite freshness and purity. The mouth was mobile, and, though ever quick with a right word, was yet, in its changing expressions, most eloquent of much that it left unspoken. The complexion was so dazzlingly fair, so daintily warmed with vermilion on the cheeks, no paint or powder could mimic it; only early rising, tender labours, never ceasing and perpetual joy of spirit could have combined to produce it. The quaint black garment, the long floating veil, and narrow gown of serge, were fit and becoming to the wearer. They laid hold of her grace and made their own of it, while she, thinking to disguise herself in their sombre setting, wrapped the unlovely folds around her, and shone out of them, as only the true gem can shine. The shadow that the black veil threw round her face made its purity almost awful, but its bloom and simplicity the more entirely enchanting. Not the satins of a duchess, the jewels of an empress, could have lent half such a fitting lustre to the womanly presence of gentle Mother Augustine, of the daughters of St. Vincent, of the old convent of St. Mark, in Blank Square.

A slight expression of wonder passed over the nun's face at the first glimpse of Hester's apparel. But one quick searching look in the shrinking eyes seemed to satisfy her. She drew the girl to a chair and sat down by her side.

You have got astray, my poor child," she said, with sympathy. "You shall tell me all about it before you sleep, that I may write to your mother-to your friends."

"I have no mother, no friends," Hester broke out, with a sudden passion. "I am an orphan, and a dressmaker's apprentice. I do not want to trouble anyone, and I will not go back to them. I should have got on very well if they had left me at my sewing."

The nun listened in surprise, with a troubled doubt springing up in her mind at the incoherency of this speech.

But she glanced at Hester's face, which was held away, and saw that the eyes had darkened and swelled, and that two heavy tears were coming dropping down her cheeks. And she knew by her controlled lips that this was sanity in grief.

"You are in trouble, my dear," she said, softly.

"Ah, it is that music!" cried Hester, making a desperate little gesture with her hand. And surely so the music was rolling on within hearing, with its solemn appealing, and its sublime content; enough to make a sore heart break with envy.

44

"True; the music!" said the Dear child, you must confide in me.

mother, comprehending. What! not afraid, surely!

How the old men in the wards, and the children in the schools, would laugh at that original idea! You would be sadly out of fashion to be afraid of Mother Augustine."

Such a speech was too much for Hester. It broke all restraint. Her face dropped down upon her hands, and she sobbed in passion of loneliness and grief.

"There is nothing but rest for this," said the Mother, standing before her, an arm round the bowed shoulders, a hand on the bent head. A long sleep first, and then-confidence." And so saying she led, almost carried, the girl to the door, across the hall, and away up that massive brown staircase, through the jewelled sunlight.

You must not be afraid that I am going to put you into hospital," she said, smiling, as they went along, Hester walking composedly now, but hanging her tear-stained face, and clinging to the Mother's hand. We have a nice little cell for stray children like you. Sometimes we call it 'the little bower,' and sometimes the little harbour,' because we think it so pretty, and find it so useful."

So in the little harbour Hester was moored, and left alone, the nun having possessed herself of the name and address of Lady Humphrey. The prettiness of the room was not in truth made out of the luxury of its appointments; but bright it was, as a brown shining floor, snow white walls, a white little bed, and a vine round the window could make it.

And there was a garden under the window of this little bower. It would seem that the very apple-trees of that so ancient nobleman were still bearing their fruit between its walls. At least there are none but the ghosts of dead gardeners who could tell us to a certainty whether they were the same trees or not. Yet, however, that might be, the sick old men and women in the hospital of St. Mark knew the taste of the ripe fruit in the cup of their cooling drink. Now a long,

gleaming row of white lilies litted the dew in their chalices to the sunlight, making a line of dazzling fringe along the sombre ivy of the wall. Vagrant boughs of jasmine were swinging upon the air, grasping at the breeze, as if the tough old bricks were not enough for them to cling to. Birds, whose ancestors had made their nests in the same trees, were singing jubilates, perhaps for thanksgiving, that they, having been born city birds, had been so happy in their generation, never fearing what was to become of their posterity when the fair garden should be swept away with another cycle, and a weedy crop of houses should have struck root in the mellow earth, their chimneys higher than even those branches had dared to soar.

This garden was all still, all holy. Neither the noise nor the wickedness of the city seeemed to reach it. A few tranquil sickly faces were moving between the ranks of the flower beds, the precious herbs, the fragrant fruits, smiling here and sighing there; mayhap wondering wistfully at the bounty of the good God, who had so brought them to life again out of the throes of anguish, and the travails of death, to bask in a sunny atmosphere of peace and bloom; to rest and be strengthened, to be led hither and thither, to be dealt with, in a sweet providence, by the hands of love. For these were the convalescent patients from the hospital, taking their morning airing while the sun was warm and new.

Hester saw them from between the leaves of her vine; and these, and the ideas they brought with hem, she gathered under the pillow of the little white bed, and slept on them; the plaining and exulting of that music still following her slumbers, and taking the guidance of her dreams. When she wakened refreshed, the mid-day sun was hot upon the window.

Two people were walking round the garden, talking, stopping. walking slowly, very earnest. They were Sir Archie Munro and his sister, the Mother Augustine.

"Good God, drop a blessing on those heads!" cried Hester "I will hold by their hands, and they will help me to be independent. I shall not be loved and forgotten, cherished and deserted."

The figures in the garden turned at the moment and came back again down the path, as if responding to her cry; two faces moving through the warm air together; two heads laid together for her good, had she but known it; two pairs of eyes full of promise for her, as she was vaguely aware. And these two people were the rival of Pierce Humphrey and the sister of the rival. And Hester was in their hands, and she had found the hands strong and kind.

This then was the man held in aversion, of Pierce Humphrey's love-story, the second lover of Janet Golden. And Hester fell to wondering about this rare, remarkable, and heartless Janet Golden. For rare and remarkable Hester had decided she must be, and any woman must be heartless who could endure to have two lovers. Here was a page of romance laid open to Hester's eyes. This grave stately person in the garden, was it possible he could have robbed the jovial Pierce of anything so trifling as a fickle lady's heart? As well might one tax royalty with picking pockets. Thus Hester was inclined to be enthusiastic about her new friends, as well as a little bitter against her old ones, and placed the two men side by side in her thought, and judged them with the simplicity of pure justice. One who should have protected, had abandoned her to loneliness and danger in a crowd, the other, upon whom she had no claim, had rescued her at inconvenience to himself: had brought her here, where she was in a place of safety. She did not say that Pierce was but a baby, while Sir Archie was a man. She did not say

that Pierce, her old companion and playfellow, was a person to be comforted, laughed at, piped to, and danced with, never to be wept against, or appealed to; while that Sir Archie might be leaned upon as a staff that would neither bend nor break; yet something of such thoughts must have been present to her mind, though she did not make the effort to give it shape.

And, despite the assurance she had given Mr. Pierce the night before, Hester could not now have a doubt upon her mind as to the faith of Janet Golden in the fealty of her lover. Fate, perhaps, would not be dealing unkindly with that young lady if it should force her to draw her hand from the loose clasp of Pierce Humphrey, and give it into the keeping of Sir Archie Munro. ROSA MULHOLLAND GILBERT.

(To be continued.)

I'

TEDDY AND THE PIE

T certainly was a delicious pie, and the best of it was that Teddy himself had helped to make it. Every cherry that went into it had been stoned by his stubby little fingers; and when the top crust had been laid carefully in place, mamma had allowed him to crimp the edges with a fork before putting it in the big, hot oven.

For the next half-hour Teddy hovered around, waiting for the moment when mother would pronounce the pie "done;" and when it did come out of the oven with its flaky crust baked to a golden brown, and delightful little tricklings of crimson juice escaping from the tiny holes pricked in the top, Teddy thought there had never been another so tempting.

"I hope there will be enough to go round," he said, somewhat anxiously. "It seems as though it wasn't as big as when you put it in the oven."

His mother laughed as she placed it on the pantry shelf to cool, and told him that she thought his appetite had grown, and that there was no danger but that he would get as much as was good for him.

Teddy walked slowly out on the porch, and sat down on the top step. Somehow he didn't feel like going very far away from that pie. He wondered if his cousin Dorothy, who was coming to dine with him, was fond of cherry pie. Perhaps, as she was just getting over the measles, she ought not to have a very big piece. He wondered, too, if it would be polite for him to have two pieces, and he thought that perhaps he would rather have the extra piece and not be quite so polite. Hark! What was that noise? Supposing the cat should get into the pantry. He thought he had better go and see.

Now what do you suppose made him open the door so softly, and tiptoe across the kitchen floor in such a quiet way?

It seemed strange, because Teddy was rather a noisy little boy, and his way through the house was usually marked by a series of bangs and thumps.

Perhaps he wanted to surprise pussy. Do you suppose that was the reason? But no pussy was there, and the pie was safe where mamma had left it.

It surely was a delightful pie. How well he had crimped the crust-almost as well as mamma. But no, stop! There