duckling, and is as little understood by his own kith and kin as if he belonged altogether to another sphere. Take him away from his father's house and set him in the midst of another family and he will develop the very virtues that he was supposed to lack, and succeed where it had been confidently predicted that he would fail. Alison Cope had been, from her childhood, the black sheep of the flock; scolded, driven hither and thither, and always taught to regard herself as a very miserable sinner indeed. But it must be confessed that she did not suffer meekly; at an early age she had learnt to discriminate between justice and injustice, and would complain loudly and boldly of the treatment she received. She was a naughty child-wilful, impulsive, and passionate; a girl who had a pert answer always ready, and delighted in exasperating her persecutors. And yet they richly deserved her stinging sarcasms, and there was seldom an outburst on her part for which they were not to be blamed. They would not, or could not, let her have peace. "I condemn," says Montaigne, "all violence in the education of a tender soul that is designed for honour and liberty." The Copes, father, mother, and sister, were always forging fetters for the rebellious spirit of Alison; and she, Samson-like, would break them by the natural force of a strong character. She would be no one's slave; all her aspirations were for freedom; and she desired nothing so much as to think and act for herself. A wise and tender control would have changed this young rebel into a loving, obedient girl. At last, happily for her, she was sent as weekly boarder to a school in the neighbourhood of her home; and there fresh influences began to work upon her character. The English teacher-a Miss Gloster-took a lively interest in this new pupil, and set about managing Alison in her own skilful fashion. It was wonderful to see how docile the girl became; how willingly she yielded to Miss Gloster's authority; how quickly she mastered all her tasks. Her own people found her greatly improved; her manner grew gentle and quiet, and even her sister Joanna's provocations were patiently borne. But here poor Alison's affectionate nature got her into trouble; she could not keep silence about her new friend, but must needs sing Miss Gloster's praises from Saturday night till Monday morning. "She talks a great deal too much about that teacher of hers," said Mr. Cope to his wife. "She cares more for Miss Gloster than for her own family. She is sorry to come home, and glad to go to school. It isn't natural." It was quite natural,-as natural as for buds to open to the sun. But Mr. and Mrs. Cope, and their daughter Joanna, believed everything to be wrong if it did not appear right in their own eyes. And unluckily for themselves and Alison, they were all, at this period of their lives, devoted to a popular parson, who made their laws, and was the keeper of their consciences. To him, therefore, they confided their feelings about Alison, and he gave them such counsel as seemed good to him. First, he advised that she should be a daily instead of a weekly boarder; and, as the school was only a mile from her home, this plan could be easily carried out. Secondly, he volunteered to call on Miss Gloster, and examine her upon the subject of religion. He would find out whether her views were sound or not. He rather fancied, from certain remarks dropped by Alison, that her teacher was a person who held dangerous opinions; indeed, he was almost sure the girl was being led to think that God's family was a great multitude instead of a little flock, and that she had wild dreams of meeting nearly all her acquaintances in heaven. There was nothing that the Reverend James Wheeler liked better than meddling in family affairs; the Copes were his devoted admirers; and as Alison was the only member of the household who had not rendered him homage, he was disposed to think unfavourably of her spiritual condition. He called at the school, asked to see Miss Gloster, and plunged at once into his subject. But he had found his match; the teacher received him with quiet dignity and perfect politeness, and yet he went away utterly foiled, knowing no more of her religious opinions than he had known at the beginning of the interview. From that day he was the relentless enemy of Miss Gloster and poor little Alison. He could not do much to injure the former, who was duly valued by her employers; but he contrived to make the latter very miserable. If there had been another school in the neighbourhood, Alison would have been removed altogether from Miss Gloster's care. Mr. Wheeler and the Copes could not entirely separate the girl from her beloved friend, but they did their best to mar the happiness of the intercourse. Yet, in spite of all the petty mortifications and annoy ances which she had to endure, her good but in a death. an It was after Harry was taken away that Alison found another Friend. She did not talk much about religion, as Joanna had done; nor had Mr. Wheeler any better opinion of her than he had formed in earlier days. He did not see that she had taken up her cross, and was following One who is often followed in silence. He told her that he hoped her affliction would soften her hard heart; and she smiled quietly, and thanked him for the good wish. It was not long after Harry Gambier's death that Mr. Cope lost a large sum of money by an unfortunate speculation. He was not the kind of man to bear such a loss bravely; and it preyed upon his mind and brought him to the grave. His widow did not long survive him, and Alison went resolutely out into the world to earn her own livelihood. After spending a year in a pension near Paris, she returned to England. Miss Gloster, ever a faithful friend, had recommended her to a lady in Berkeley Square, who wanted a governess. And on the way to London there | was a railway accident, which was the means of bringing about a new friendship. Alison, herself, escaped entirely unhurt, and was able to bestow all her care upon one of the principal sufferers, an elderly man who was travelling alone. She did not leave him until she had seen him comfortably settled in his rooms at the Castle and Falcon; the hotel was his only home, and his business premises were close by in Aldersgate Street. Even in her school days, she had always felt strongly drawn towards lonely people, and in all her life she had never met with any one so utterly lonely as Stephen Nott. The acquaintance did not end with that one act of kindness. After a month's illness, Mr. Nott was well enough to call at Mr. Dennison's house in Berkeley Square, and ask to see the governess. He had begged Alison to tell him her address, and he came in person to offer her his thanks. And then it transpired that Mr. Dennison had some slight acquaintance with him, and knew him to be a rich and respectable tradesman. For five years Alison led a peaceful life with the Dennison family. When she first came to Berkeley Square it was to take charge of a motherless girl of fifteen, too delicate to be sent to school; and now the pale little pupil was a handsome young woman on the eve of marriage. So Alison Cope's work there was done, and she had already found another situation. For the last time she had come to rest and meditate in the disused churchyard of Christ's Hospital. On the morrow the wedding would take place, and on the day after the wedding the governess had arranged to leave London dear, busy old London, that she loved better than any other place in the world. Yet they were not melancholy thoughts that came to Alison as she sat in the flowery churchyard, and looked up at the hospital walls. She had done her duty faithfully, but she had never set her heart upon her home in Berkeley Square, knowing that it must, "For here one day, cease to be a home. we have no continuing city," was a text that often ran in her mind. She was as veritably a pilgrim as the Christiana or Mercy of Bunyan's dream; but she was a young woman, and in a quiet fashion she rejoiced in her youth. in her youth. She could sing as she trod the highway of life, and gather the lilies that grew in the Valley of Humiliation. And she could help many a tired wayfarer who was ready to faint at the obstacles that never daunted her stronger soul. Hers was essentially a helpful nature; she liked to be leant upon-liked to share her strength and energy with some weaker spirit. "I can never be lonely as long as there is somebody to be helped," she said to herself as she sat on the bench. "I always know that I'm sure to be wanted somewhere." And then her thoughts turned to the young bride-elect who had been her pupil for five tranquil years. Julia Dennison had found the husband best suited for a gentle, affectionate girl, whose sweetness made one overlook her weakness of character. The bridegroom was ten years her senior-a grave, kindly man, who wanted a wife to be a pet rather than a companion. Things were just as they should be, mused Alison; but then a quiet smile crossed her face for a moment. She recollected that there was one person who thought that things were just as they should not be; and that person was the bride's father. Alison had had more than one offer of marriage since her lover's death. Menespecially the best kind of men—are quick -are quick in recognising that valuable quality of helpfulness which she possessed. They liked, too, the look of truth and courage in her thoughtful hazel eyes, and the smile that lit up her grave face with sudden brightness. She had mingled freely in society while she lived with the Dennisons; and some of Mr. Dennison's lady friends-matrons with marriageable daughters-had regarded her with secret jealousy. They knew by instinct (for nobody told them) that Julia Dennison's plain governess had refused a clever young doctor, and they prophesied that she would end by becoming her pupil's step-mother. I “I must live my life in my own way," Alison had said to herself. "I can never wed unless I love as I loved my Harry. should feel that I was doing my husband an injustice if I gave him but half a heart. While I am young and strong I like to get my own living; and if ever I am an old woman, I am sure that God will take care of me.” And when the second offer came, as had been predicted, from Mr. Dennison himself, she spoke her gentle but firm refusal, and prepared to leave the house as soon as Julia's wedding was over. After a quarter of an hour's rest Alison rose from the bench, and took her last look at the churchyard garden and the hospital walls. She smiled a farewell to the royal | boy-figure in the niche, and went out of the iron gate and into the world again. 66 "My new home is in Hampshire," replied Alison. I know very little about the place it's only a small village which takes its name from a castle that was a great seafortress once. It is called Castleport." "How did you hear of the situation, Miss Cope? ” I saw an advertisement, and answered it. Then came a letter from Mrs. Montrose, my new employer, which made me feel sure that I should like her. She is a widow with two little daughters." "You believe in letters?" said Mr. Nott half cynically. "True," said Alison brightly. "But let us give each side its fair share of attention. Don't let us dwell too much on the deceit and ingratitude and falseness; let us look also at the truth and unselfishness and reality It was in a very dingy warehouse in in that positively do exist.' Aldersgate Street that Mr. Nott was to be found. He was a wholesale paper dealer, and Alison had to tread a narrow path between great piles of foolscap before she reached the little den where the old man transacted his business. But this was not her first visit to the warehouse, and she did not need the guidance of the errand-boy who stepped forward to offer his services. "I am come to say a long good-bye, Mr. Nott," she said, as he rose to greet her. "I leave London on the day after to-morrow." "Miss Dennison is going to be married, I suppose?" the old gentleman asked. “You haven't quarrelled with her?" "She will be married to-morrow. We have lived five years together without quarrelling once," answered Alison, seating herself on a prickly old horsehair sofa. "Yes, they do exist," Mr. Nott admitted, gazing straight into the frank face before him. And then Alison said a last good-bye, and went her way back to Berkeley Square. CHAPTER IV.-FIRST IMPRESSIONS. IT was past eight in the evening when Alison reached Castleport, and found Fenton and a fly awaiting her at the railway station. Fenton explained briefly that Mrs. Montrose would have come herself to meet Miss Cope, but she was not strong, and had been confined to the sofa all day. The village was thronged with summer tourists; there had been festivities at the castle, and the merrymakers were going home in troops. Nearly all were laden with nosegays; artisans, soldiers, sailors, and their sweethearts, wives, and children, carried front garden before breakfast. She was better looking than he had thought her at first. Her dark hair, braided closely round her small head, shone like satin in the sun; once she lifted her eyes to follow the flight huge bouquets of scarlet geranium mixed with other flowers. There was a great deal of loud talking and laughing, and the women, gaily dressed and in high spirits, bestowed some of their smiles on the stranger in the fly. Alison, very little wearied by the jour-of a butterfly, and he saw that they were ney, sat up to look around her, and took a lively interest in everything. "She's one of the right sort," thought Fenton. "No shyness, nor low spirits, nor wanting of smelling-salts and eau-de-Cologne. There's a contented look on her face, and she means to make the best of everything. Rather different to Mr. Eadie when he came here, calling himself a wreck, and bemoaning his ill luck from morning till night! It seems to me that it's the women who've got all the pluck that is to be found in the world." But Alison, although she had a large share of pluck, and was blessed with excellent health, could be very tender with the weak. Hers was not that kind of strength which refuses to believe in other peoples' weakness; she did not treat all invalids as if they were shams, and sneer at the young women who could not stand the fatigue of long walks or drives. And there was no contemptuous pity in her mind when she heard that Mrs. Montrose had been on the sofa all day. The two women-Pauline and Alisonmet under the porch of the cottage door; and Graham Eadie looked on with languid curiosity. His first impressions of the governess were not unfavourable; she was well dressed, as he could see at once; her plain, dark gown fitted her perfectly, and she wore the neatest hat that ever shaded a woman's face. Then, too, she possessed that "excellent thing in woman," a musical voice. Pauline's voice was a soft treble; Alison's was richer and fuller, but quite as soft. "I I wonder how we shall get on with her," said Mrs. Montrose, when she had taken Alison to her room, and was alone with her brother again. "I scarcely expected to see such a staid woman, Graham. But I'm devoutly thankful that she is not a pretty, flighty girl; one feels as if she could be relied upon to any extent.' "She certainly isn't pretty," Graham responded. "And I shouldn't think she could ever be flighty. But she's a very neat little person, Pauline; and a gentlewoman." Evidently a gentlewoman," assented Mrs. Montrose. Graham was by no means an early-riser; but he was sufficiently interested in the governess to open his window and look cautiously out upon her as she paced the little clear hazel eyes-large and full. She wore a morning dress of dark blue, trimmed sparingly with white; and moved with the easy grace that belongs to a perfectly-shaped figure. Quite unconscious that she was watched, she looked at everything around her with the interest that Londoners always feel in common country objects. For five years she had lived in town, and there was a new delight to be found in flowers, and birds, and bees ;-a pleasant sense of companionship with wild things that went flitting through the warm air. The buttercup-field was a hay-field now; all the dewy gold was gone, and in its place were heaps of scented hay, and men and women at work with rakes and prongs. Healthy, sunburnt faces, flushed with toil, might be seen under straw hats and sunbonnets; cheery voices shouted across the haycocks, and sturdy children ran to and fro. Alison stood and gazed at the scene with a smile of quiet satisfaction. "Good morning," said Pauline's voice at her elbow. "I hope you slept well." 'Quite well, thank you," the governess answered. "It is seldom that I pass a sleepless night." 66 It "I can never sleep soundly, myself, in a Pauline. strange house," remarked takes me a long time to get used to a new room.” "I think I soon get used to things," said Alison pleasantly. The words were simple enough, but something in the tone and manner of the speaker told of so contented a mind that Pauline half envied her. What would not Mrs. Montrose have given if she could get used to things! Yet there was nothing in Alison that denoted any lack of deep feeling; her face, very grave in repose, seemed to hint at a tale of old sorrow. One knew instinctively that she had learnt to suffer and be strong. "Breakfast is ready," said Pauline, after a short pause. short pause. "Your pupils are very anxious to see you, Miss Cope." The two dark-eyed children came forward with a touch of pretty shyness in their manner. And then the little party sat down to breakfast. The meal was nearly over before Graham appeared. He saw but little of the governess that morning. Miss Cope and her charges went off to the school-room and set to work in good earnest. And so anxious was Pauline to follow them that after fidgeting in her chair for some minutes she asked Graham to excuse her, and rose. "I should like to know something about Miss Cope's system,” she said. "Oh, you are quite safe in letting Miss Cope alone," rejoined Graham, helping himself to toast. "If I'm not mistaken she could manage you and the children too, with very little difficulty." "But she doesn't strike me as being one of your dreadfully strong-minded women, Graham. I hope she is not." "Just so. I have been studying that woman's face with great interest, Pauline. In fact, I'm quite thankful to have found something new to study." "I thought you were getting a little weary of Castleport charms," remarked Pauline quietly. The first week of Graham's stay in Castle port had been a very dreary week indeed. After he had thoroughly bemoaned his hard case to the patient Pauline, and explored the castle with his little nieces, he began to sigh for some new source of amusement. To be amused was to be kept from brooding over his troubles, and he caught eagerly at any straw that might save him from sinking into the bitter waters of melancholy. Feminine society offered itself in his extremity, and he soon became known in the village as a ladies' man. If the ladies were not women of the highest type they were, at any rate, in perfect goodhumour with themselves, and accepted Graham's broadest compliments in simple faith. There were fair, buxom girls, stolid and goodnatured; lively girls, who aimed at being piquante and original, and uttered pert things in the belief that they were witty; and there were quiet, domestic girls who had never seen anything outside their little home-world, and wondered at Mr. Eadie as a being who had come from another sphere. With all these young persons, Graham carried on the most open flirtation; but, to do him justice, he made no false professions. Sometimes, when little vulgarisms were noticeable, he thought of Ada Winslow's delicate grace, and sighed; but when a man cannot get porcelain, he must needs content himself with delft-ware. None of these girls had any idea of the real state of his affairs. They saw habitually a well-dressed man who carried no signs of adversity about him, and they may be pardoned if they tried their little wiles, and strove to win something more than compliments. Graham saw all, and enjoyed the sport, but it was not long before the game got wearisome. If he had ever dreamt of the possibility of flirting with his sister's governess, his first interview with Alison must have put the notion to flight. He saw at a glance that she was not the sort of woman to be flirted with; and had you asked what he thought of her, he would not have said that he admired her greatly. But he would have admitted that she interested him. The children only used the school-room in study hours, and when those hours were ended, Alison had the apartment all to herself. One day when she was out walking, Graham strolled into it and looked about him with some curiosity. There were two bookcases in the room; one had always been filled with the children's books, and the other had stood quite empty. But now it was empty no longer; Alison had brought with her a store of goodly volumes, and they were neatly arranged on the shelves. He took them down one by one, and examined their contents. There were nearly all the leading poets, old and new. He turned over the leaves with a quiet smile, wondering if he should find all the sentimental passages scored with a pencil, as he had found them marked, many a time, in ladies' copies of Tennyson and Owen Meredith. But here there were no pencil traces to be found; the books bore signs of use-they had evidently been read and re-read—yet their owner had refrained from letting other people know the lines that she loved best. On At the end of the upper shelf stood a small copy of In Memoriam, more richly bound than any of the other volumes. its fly-leaf was written in a man's hand—“To dearest Alison;"-and Graham began to suspect that he had lighted on something romantic at last. Here, indeed, the pencil had been at work; and it was clear that Alison had found in that wonderful poem the fullest and truest expression of her own sorrow. The smile died out of Graham |