‘Oh, dear Mrs. Dulcimer, I hope you don’t think I did it on that account,’ cried Bella, with a shocked look. ‘It is a real pleasure to me to be of some little use. When I see how good you and Mr. Dulcimer are----’ ‘Oh, my dear, I’m afraid I don’t go among the poor as much as I ought. Anxious as I am to do good, I don’t get on with them as well as Clement does. I can’t help telling them when I see things going wrong, and trying to set them in the right way. And they resent that. One must look on and smile as if everything was right--dirt--muddle--extravagance--everything. It is too trying for any one with an energetic temper. I’m sure only the other day I said to Maria Bowes--whom I’ve known all my life--“If I were you, Maria, I’d try to have your keeping-room a little neater--and a few flowers in the window--and the hearth always swept up. It would be so much nicer for Bowes when he comes home from his work.” “I dare say I should have it so if I’d three women-servants, and a boy to clean up after them,” she answered, quite impertinently, “and, if my keeping-room wasn’t kitchen and chamber too.” “Do you mean to say that I keep too many servants, Maria?” I said. “No, ma’am,” she answered, “but I mean that gentlefolks can’t tell how difficult poor folks find it to cook a bit of victuals, and keep their children from getting ragged, without fiddle-faddling with cleaning up a place that’s no sooner cleaned than it’s mucked again.”’ ‘I can pity her, poor wretch,’ said Bella, ‘for it’s like that with us at home, though we make believe to think ourselves gentlefolks. It’s as much as mother can do to keep things together anyhow; and every Saturday night is a struggle to get the children’s clothes decent for Sunday. Mother and I often sit up till after twelve o’clock, sewing on buttons, and darning stockings.’ ‘Ah, what a wife you will make, Bella!’ exclaimed Mrs. Dulcimer, as if a wife’s one duty were the repair of her husband’s garments. * * * * * The woods were growing browner, the moorland grayer. The mists of chill November crept up from the valley, and hung upon the hill-side. The river was half hidden under a silvery veil, on those dim November afternoons. An autumnal tranquillity hung over the sombre old Water House. The dahlias and hollyhocks were dead, the chrysanthemums were fading--autumn primroses showed pale in quiet nooks of the garden, and along by the old-fashioned borders stole the welcome odour of late violets. How often Cyril Culverhouse lingered on the old Roman bridge to look at the house which held the one woman he loved! The entrance tower and a couple of fine old yew trees hid the river walk from him, or he might have seen Beatrix pacing slowly up and down in melancholy solitude. She had not answered his letter, but he had received a brief note from Mr. Harefield. ‘SIR,--I have delivered your letter to my daughter unread. I hope the next two years will bring her wisdom.