AT length the weary weeks allotted to Evelyn Manwaring in the home of her fathers drew to their close. It had in all respects been a trying time. It had been the girl’s delight to be on friendly terms with all the poor people in the village, and the hearty North-country folks were sore at heart at the bare idea of “the Lily of Arrow Dale” being taken away from them. There was not one of the farmers, there was not one of the labourers whom she did not visit in order to say good-bye, and to almost all she contrived to bring some little present as a remembrance. Wherever she went, she met with the same warm feelings, and the same hearty yet sorrowful farewell; in every house she had God’s blessing called down upon her head. The school-children she had petted, the choir she had taught, and a class of great hobby-de-hoys whom she had done her best to instruct, and whom on Sunday evenings she used to amuse by reading aloud in the snug, wainscotted housekeeper’s room--all these were miserable at her departure. “There will be no spring in Arrow Dale, Miss Evelyn,” said a burly young farmer from the Yorkshire side, “when its Lily has ceased to bloom;” and “the Lily” (and I) thought that a very pretty compliment. Evelyn only broke down once. One evening, when her cousin chanced to be absent, she was called out of her sanctum, and there in the entrance hall she found a _posse_ of great country lads, carters, carpenters, shepherds, and the like, all painfully dressed in their best Sunday clothes, and smelling strongly of mottled soap. They bore with them a huge posy of autumnal flowers, and a great Prayer Book, in a grand binding, bought far away over at smoky Preston itself, and of these they begged her acceptance as a remembrance. Jack Woolstanhaugh, the blacksmith’s son--a great hulking fellow, with an arm which would have felled an ox--who was deputed formally to present the gift, and to make a little speech in behalf of the rest, could not get beyond his second sentence, though North-country lads are proud of the gift they have of speaking on sufficient occasions. First he came to a full stop, then he stammered out something quite unintelligible, and then his voice altogether failed him. The next moment the big, honest fellow burst into a great fit of crying, and in that he was joined by the rest of his companions. Such a boohooing was seldom heard. As to Evelyn, she broke down altogether, and with wild looks of sympathy, and great beautiful eyes streaming with tears--sorrow mingled this time with joy--she could only shake hands with each lad in turn as he shambled sheepishly out of the room. Doubtless those tears were blessed which bound her in sympathy with her poorer brethren!