of the world, so that breathing space and quiet might be secured for those favourites of fortune, produced a great effect upon Hetty. And to think that her mother had been brought up amid those shady glades and wide stretches of tranquil greenness! “Oh,” thought Hetty, “what would she give only to have permission to walk in such a park with the children now?” When she had become quite familiar with this strange life, and had begun to feel herself, as people say, “at home,” although it was so different, so very different, so much worse and better than home, Hetty acquired various scraps of information about the strange household. There were never any visitors at Horton except the doctor and the clergyman, the former a young man, very grave and sedate in appearance, who appeared frequently at the house, and was constantly met by the little party in their walks in the park, when he seemed to be going or coming from the Hall, but always stopped to explain that he was on his way to some distant place, and had taken advantage of the permission he had to take the short cut across the park. The clergyman, on the other hand, was old and very cheerful, a gay little white-haired old man, who took tea about once a week with Miss Hofland and her charges, and whose visits were their brightest moments, Mr. Hayman, the rector, was always gay; the young doctor, whose name was Darrell, was always serious. Except these two, nobody ever came to the house. This roused little questions in the mind of Hetty, who was young enough to accept whatever happened as the common order of affairs. And it was only when Miss Hofland took the girl into her confidence that any question arose in her mind. Miss Hofland was older and more alive to the peculiarities of their cloistered life. “Don’t you think it is a strange thing, my dear,” she said to Hetty suddenly, when she had been about a month at Horton, “that a mother should go away to the end of the world for a whole year, and leave her only little child all alone in a big house like this?” They had been sitting together over the fire for a long time in silence. Rhoda had gone to bed, the great silence of the wintry park had closed over the house, and there was the darkness of a moonless night, which seemed somehow to creep into the rooms, and intensify the stillness and sense of seclusion from all the world. Hetty was much startled by this question. It took her some time to think what her companion could mean--a mother at the end of the world, and an only little child all alone! She looked up surprised, repeating almost unconsciously, “A mother--at the end of the world!” “Yes,” said Miss Hofland; “don’t say you haven’t asked yourself the same----” “Do you mean--Rhoda?” faltered Hetty, feeling as if the suggestion was in some sort a betrayal of trust. “I mean Rhoda’s mother; who else could I mean? Did you ever hear of such a thing before? There are a great many things I don’t understand about this house.”