‘I should think anything that Cara worked at pretty,’ said Edward, forgetting precaution. Miss Cherry looked up at him suddenly with a little alarm, but Cara, who was searching for the crewels, and the thimble and the scissors, on a distant table, fortunately did not hear what he said. ‘H-hush!’ said Miss Cherry; ‘we must not make the child vain;’ but, to tell the truth, her lively imagination immediately leaped at a rivalship between the brothers. ‘I suppose we must consider her fate sealed, though she is not so frank about it as I could wish,’ she added, in an undertone. ‘Here are your crewels, Aunt Cherry; and here is the book, Edward. What were you talking about?’ said Cara, coming back into the warm circle of the light. ‘Nothing, my darling--about the art-needlework, and Edward thinks it very pretty; but I am not sure that I don’t prefer the Berlin wool. After all, to work borders to dusters seems scarcely worth while, does it? Oh yes, my dear, I know it is for a chair; but it looks just like a duster. Now we used to work on silk and satin--much better worth it.’ ‘Aunt Cherry, you always talk most when someone is beginning to read.’ ‘Do I, dear?’ said Miss Cherry, in a wondering, injured tone. ‘Well, then, I shall be silent. I do not think I am much given to be talkative. Have I got everything?--then, my dear boy, please go on.’ It was a pretty scene. The rich warm centre of the fire, the moon-lamps on either table, filled the soft atmosphere with light. Miss Cherry, in her grey gown, which was of glistening silk, full of soft reflections, in the evening, sat on one side, with her crewels in her lap, giving points of subdued colour, and her face full in the light, very intent over the work, which sometimes puzzled her a little. Cara and Edward had the other table between them; he with his book before him, placed so that he could see her when he raised his eyes; she with the muslin she was hemming falling about her pretty hands--a fair white creature, with a rose-light shed upon her from the fire. The rest of the room was less light, enshrining this spot of brightness, but giving forth chance gleams in every corner from mirrors which threw them forth dimly, from china and old Venetian glass, which caught the light, and sent flickers of colour about the walls. Mr. Beresford, who, deprived of his usual rest, was wandering about, an _âme en peine_, looked in for a moment at the door, and paused to look at them, and then disappeared again. He never spent a moment longer than he could help in that haunted room; but to-night, perhaps, in his restlessness, might have found it a relief to take his natural place there, had he not been checked by the quiet home-like aspect of this pretty group, which seemed complete. It did not look like any chance combination, but seemed so harmonious, so natural to the place, as if it had always been there, and always must possess the warm fireside, that he was incapable of disturbing them. Better to