did not seem a moral want in her as it does in some people, so much as a wistful vacancy, a blank caused by some accident. No sort of cynic scorn of the imagination of others, such, as the unimaginative often show, was in her passive soul; but she followed the gaze of the eyes which could thus see into the unseen with a wistful look which was full of pathos. “How do you know when things are going to happen?” she said to Nelly, who had just been indulging in a long account of Miss Vane’s probable appearance and manners to cheer them over their work, as they sat with Alice in Mrs. Eastwood’s room, helping to make some new “things” for Innocent’s outfit. “I don’t know in the least--I only imagine,” said Nelly, laughing. “Imagine!” repeated Innocent. She did not understand it. She was all a dream, poor child, and Nelly was all real; but the dream-girl possessed no imagination at all, while the other was running over with ready youthful fancy. No matter-of-fact creature, no dull clodhopper, could be more absolutely and rigidly bound within the lines of what she knew, than Innocent. She knew the old wandering life in Italy, and she knew The Elms. But all the rest of the world was a blank to her. She had formed no idea either of what she was about to meet with, or how she was to conduct herself under other circumstances. With such an absence of the faculty which guides us through it, the future and every change can be nothing but a terror to the ignorant soul. “Look here, Innocent,” said Jenny, who had always taken a special charge of her, on the evening before she left home. He had taken her into the garden for the purpose of examining her, and satisfying himself that she was what he called a free agent. “Are you sure you like going? That’s what I want to know.” “Like going?” said Innocent, opening her eyes. “Oh, no.” “Why are you going, then? Is it because you are obliged?” asked Jenny, knitting portentous brows. “Obliged!” Innocent repeated once more, with a little wonder. “I am going because my aunt thinks so--neither because I am obliged, nor because I like. It is not me, it is her.” “But it ought not to be like that,” cried Jenny. “Speak to my mother, she is very reasonable. She never forces a fellow into anything; tell her that you would rather not. That’s how I always did.” “But you are a boy,” said Innocent, with a mixture of respect and gentle contempt, which I fear she had learned from Nelly. “What difference does that make? have a little courage, and tell me. The thing you want to learn,” said Jenny, with much gravity, “is that everybody here wishes you to be happy, wishes you to do what pleases you. Don’t misunderstand my mother. You take up an idea of your own--you don’t look at the real state of the case, and try to make out what she means. Don’t you understand me, Innocent?” “No,” said Innocent, looking at him with veiled and wondering eyes.