When her scholars were finally dismissed that day--and Mrs Buchanan heard Helen’s voice singing snatches of old songs before the last little one had made her farewell curtsey at the school-room door--Helen took her book in her hand and went away over the bridge and through the long, waving grass to the Waterside. She chose one little dell, her favourite spot, where the trees, closely circling it round, left one green, swelling bank, upon the brink of the water, on which the sunshine fell through a network of boughs and leaves. On the opposite side of the river, within sight of her resting-place, burns were running down like so many choristers into the broad stream, and in the middle of the strong brown current eddies played fantastically, and by the bank branches of long willows swept the tide, and the dark alder and the delicate ash leaned over, glassing their foliage in its waves. And there the young dreamer sat absorbed, lingering over the kindred thoughts which kept pace so truly to the music of her own, and starting now and then as the rapid fancies poured upon her like a flood, and she shaped the future in that fairy loom--a future not such as common dreamers choose. Noble labour, keeping time to the great universal harmonies which God has planted in his world--work such as befits His followers, who for men became a man. She seemed to hear the grand and noble chimes with which all nature accompanies the work of those who seek to speed the coming of His kingdom. The light of common day was radiant to her with the sunshine of promise; it should yet shine upon a purer world, a country ransomed by its King; and she forgot the pain, and difficulty, and miseries that intervened for joy of the certain end. But amid the dreamings of Helen, there came the interrupting sound of a hurried, bounding footstep, and almost before she could look up to see who the intruder was, Hope Oswald plunged down upon her, out of breath. Hope had arrived in Fendie only that morning, and had been seeking Helen at home. She was overjoyed to find her here. “I saw you reading a book,” exclaimed Hope, when the first greeting was over. “I am quite sure you were reading a book--Helen, may I not see it? Why did you put it away?” “It is a grave book, Hope, not such as you would like,” said Helen, looking as she felt, embarrassed and conscious. “But I like grave books--sometimes,” said Hope. “I am fifteen--I am not a girl now, Helen; but do you mind what Tibbie said, last Hallowe’en? You were to get your fortune out of a book. Oh, Helen, will you tell me? Have you ever got your fortune yet?” Helen fairly turned her burning cheek away, with a nervous start. So it was fulfilled, the simple prophecy of Tibbie; the hour and the book had come, and this was “the fortune” of Helen. She did not make any answer. She held her precious volume under her shawl and looked over the wan water, away into the vacant air, with her changeful smile.