hand were heard the lusty notes of thrush and blackbird, chaffinch and blackcap; and from these there was a gradation of sounds, down to the faint lispings of the more tender melodists singing at a distance, reaching the sense like voices mysterious and spiritualised from some far unseen world. And at intervals came the fluting cry of the cuckoo, again and again repeated, so aerial, yet with such a passionate depth in it, as if the Spirit of Nature itself had become embodied, and from some leafy hiding-place cried aloud with mystic lips. Listening to that rare melody Fan had stood for a long time, her heart feeling almost oppressed with the infinite sweetness of nature; so motionless that the yellow skippers and small blue-winged butterflies fluttered round her in play, and at intervals alighting on her dress, sat with spread wings, looking like strange yellow and blue gems on the snow-white drapery. Her mind was troubled at Miss Churton's approach; for it now seemed to her that human affection and sympathy were more to her than they had ever been; that a touch, a word, a look almost, would be sufficient to overcome her and make her fall from her loyalty to Mary. Even when the other was standing by her side, curiously regarding her still pale face, she made no sign, but after one troubled glance remained with eyes cast down. “Are you not tired of being alone with nature yet, Fan?” said Miss Churton, with a smile, and placing her hand on the girl's neck. “Oh no, Miss Churton; it is so--pleasant to be here!” she replied. But she spoke in a slow mechanical way, and seemed to the other strangely cold and irresponsive; she shivered a little, too, when the caressing hand touched her neck, as if the warm fingers had seemed icy cold. “Then you were not sorry to be left so long alone?” “No--I could not feel tired. I think--I could have stayed alone here until--until--” then her inability to express her thoughts confused her and she became silent. “Yes, Fan, until--” said the other, taking her hand. But the hand she took rested cold and still in hers, and Fan was silent. At length, reddening a little, she said: “Miss Churton, I cannot say what I feel.” “Do you feel, Fan, that the sight of nature fills your heart with a strange new happiness, such as no pleasure in your London life ever gave, and at the same time a sadness for which you cannot imagine any cause?” “Oh, do you feel that too, Miss Churton? Will you tell me what it is?”