“But—” she said,—“the date. It is an annual, published three years after my mother’s death.” “Oh, I beg your pardon, miss, I did not say my late lady gave it me. I said, my lady. I know how to distinguish between them. If it had been given me by your dear mother, who is gone, my late lady, do you suppose it would be lying here? I would not keep it in the room where I sit but rarely, but have it in my bed-chamber, where I could fold my hands over it when I pray.” “I should like,” said Arminell, “to see the sheet that my poor dear mother gave you, and which you cherish so fondly, to wrap about you in the grave.” “With pleasure,” said Mrs. Saltren. “No—I won’t say with pleasure, for it calls up sad recollections, and yet, miss, there is pleasure in thinking of the goodness of that dear lady who is gone. Lor! miss, it did seem dreadful that my dear lady when on earth didn’t take precedency over the daughter of an earl, but now, in heaven, she ranks above marchionesses.” Then she asked Arminell to take a chair, and went slowly upstairs to search for the sheet. While she was absent the girl looked round her, and now her lips curled with derision at the grotesque strain after refinement and luxury which were unattainable as a whole, and only reached in inharmonious scraps and disconnected patches. This was the home of Jingles! What a change for him, from these mean surroundings, this tasteless affectation, to the stateliness and smoothness of life at Orleigh Park! How keenly he must feel the contrast when he returned home! Had her father dealt rightly by the young man, in giving him culture beyond his position? It is said that a man has sat in an oven whilst a chop has been done, and has eaten the chop, without being himself roasted, but then the temperature of the oven was gradually raised and gradually lowered. Young Saltren had jumped into the oven out of a cellar and passed every now and then back again to the latter. This alteration of temperatures would kill him. Some time elapsed before Mrs. Saltren returned. She descended the stair slowly, sighing, with the sheet over her arm. “You need not fear to catch the fever from it, miss,” she said, “it has been washed many times since it was used—with my tears.” Arminell’s heart was full. She took the sheet and looked at it. How good, how considerate her mother had been. And what a touch of real feeling this was in the faithful creature, to cherish the token of her mother’s kindness. The young are sentimental, and are incapable of distinguishing true feeling from false rhodomontade. “Why!” exclaimed Arminell, “it has a mark in the corner S.S,—does not that stand for your husband’s initials?” The woman seemed a little taken aback, but soon recovered herself.