It was a small house, a mere cottage, set in a pleasant little garden, through the palings of which I saw, walking about, a young woman with a child in her arms. She had on a straw hat with a deep lace fall that hid her face, but her figure was very graceful, and she was extremely well dressed. Nevertheless, she looked not exactly "the lady." Also, hearing the gate bell, she called out, "Arriet," in no lady's voice. Penelope glanced at her, and then sharply at me. "I wonder--" she began; but stopped--told me to remain in the carriage while she went in, and she would fetch me if she wanted me. But she did not. Indeed, she hardly stayed two minutes. I saw the young woman run hastily in-doors, leaving her child--such a pretty boy! screaming after his "mammy,"--and Penelope came back, her face the colour of scarlet. "What? Is it a mistake?" I asked. "No--yes," and she gave the order to drive on. Again I enquired if anything were the matter, and was answered, "Nothing--nothing that I could understand." After which she sat with her veil down, cogitating; till, all of a sudden, she sprang up as if some one had given her a stab at her heart. I was quite terrified, but she again told me it was nothing, and bade me "let her alone." Which as you know, is the only thing one can do with my sister Penelope. But at the railway-station we met some people we knew, and she was forced to talk;--so that by the time we reached Rockmount she seemed to have got over her annoyance, whatever it was, concerning Sarah Enfield, and was herself again. That is, herself in one of those moods when, whether her ailment be mental or physical, the sole chance of its passing away is, as she says, "to leave her alone." I do not say this is not trying--doubly so now, when, just as she is leaving, I seem to understand my sister better and love her more than ever I did in my life. But I have learned at last not to break my heart over the peculiarities of those I care for; but try to bear with them as they must with mine, of which I have no lack, goodness knows! I saw a letter to Francis in the post-bag this morning, so I hope she has relieved her mind by giving him the explanation which she refused to me. It must have been some deception practised on her by this Sarah Enfield, and Penelope never forgives the smallest deceit. She was either too much tired or too much annoyed to appear again yesterday, so papa and I spent the afternoon and evening alone. But she went to church with us, as usual, to-day--looking pale and tired--the ill mood--"the little black dog on her shoulder," as we used to call it, not having quite vanished. Also, I noticed an absent expression in her eyes, and her voice in the responses was less regular than usual. Perhaps she was thinking this would almost be her last Sunday of sitting in the old pew, and looking up to papa's white hair, and her heart being fuller, her lips were more silent than usual.