It is doubtful if he would recollect it now, for twenty years have passed since he heard it, and the thread of the tale must be taken up where the teller let it drop. The mistress of Monks Lea had enough of sorrowful memories, but she was not one who desired to fix her mind on these alone. Apart from the loss of husband and children, the past held glorious memories of her own early days, made as bright as love and care could render them; of a happy wooing, ending in a blessed union with the man of her choice, her only love; of a married life, too short, indeed, but still as near perfection as is consistent with humanity. Mrs. Austin was just the woman to have chosen the bright side to dwell upon, had she not been carrying about with her a foreboding dread of which she could not rid herself. She had been called upon to give up five of her children. Would her last, her one ewe lamb, be spared to her? Or would her little Margery follow her sisters into the "silent land?" The answer to this seemed worse than doubtful. The child was growing paler, thinner, more listless every day. Toys were put away. Nothing attracted her, she asked for nothing, had no wants. It was in vain that the doctors said the child had no disease. Their words gave Mrs. Austin no comfort, for she was almost heart-broken. "Can you not see that Margery is fading before our eyes? Is there no remedy? Can all your skill do nothing to save this one little child?" she asked. Then clasping Margery to her breast, as though her motherly love would shield the little one from the advancing foe, she looked with beseeching eyes in the faces of the pitying doctors, who knew not how to answer her appeal. It was not, however, from these that Mrs. Austin gained a gleam of hope, but from a poor mother in a cottage home, indeed, yet one whose heart was as rich in maternal love as her own. "My little Effie was just the same as Miss Margery, after her sister died, for there were only the big rough lads left, and they were no mates for her. She just wailed for Nelly, and I thought she was going to follow her, when we got a new neighbour, who had a bright little lass, the age of her that was gone. She, too, had left her mates behind her, and was sorrowing for them, but when she saw my Effie, she just flew to her and got her arms round her neck, fair crying for joy. The bairns comforted one another in a way that we older folk, with all our care and thought, cannot manage or understand. Mine was saved by a playmate, when the doctor could only look on, say kind words, and do nothing. Now, dear lady, surely it is worth while to try the same thing for Miss Margery. It can do her no harm to give her a playmate. It may save her, as it did my Effie." "Do you know of a nice little girl, whose parents would let her come and stay at Monks Lea?" asked Mrs. Austin, eagerly. Jane Gresham shook her head.