Mrs Buchanan’s heart did not rise as her daughter’s did; but the good mother was ready to brighten too, lest those occasional gleams of sunshine, the sole solace of Helen’s toiling life, should be overcast. “When is Hope to come?” she asked, “and what made Lilias think of asking Hope, Helen?” “She wanted to escape from her own thoughts--at least she said so, mother--she wanted to be prevented from dwelling upon her hopes and fears for this night; and the grown-up people, the young ladies and the young gentlemen, would have tormented rather than eased her. Poor Lilias! I think she has some idea of Mossgray’s errand; she has not asked much about him, but a step without makes her shiver, and at night she grows so anxious. You are used to nervous people, mother, but when Lilias is nervous--so calm as she naturally is--it is far more painful to see, I think, than any natural tremor. Are you ready? for there is Hope.” Hope led by the hand a little white-frocked, blue-eyed girl, the little Mary Wood of whom she had spoken so much. Miss Swinton had remained only a day in Fendie, and to Hope’s great disappointment, had not seen Helen; but the little Mary was left with Mrs Oswald for a long visit. Hope was exceedingly fond and proud of the child, and eager to display its juvenile wisdom and attainments. They all set out together for Mossgray. “My papa is in India,” said little Mary Wood, sliding her small hand into the trembling fingers of Lilias, as they sat under cover of the great beech, watching the autumn sun sink gorgeously over the western hill; “and when I am a big lady I’m to go to India too, and then I’m to be married to somebody--Miss Mansfield says so, Hope.” And Lilias laughed tremulously with the others, communicating a sick melancholy tone to the very sound of mirth. “But Miss Mansfield says so, Miss Maxwell; and Miss Mansfield is a grown-up lady; she’s bigger than Miss Buchanan--isn’t she, Hope?” “Never mind Miss Mansfield; nobody cares about her,” said Hope; “but look, little Mary, look at yon star!--oh, Helen, look! in among the gold clouds, and it so white and cold like--I know what it’s like.” “Oh! what is it like, Hope?” cried little Mary Wood, who had the greatest possible admiration of Hope’s stories. “It’s like somebody--somebody like what folk are in books,” said Hope, “standing in among the rich common people; it’s far better than the clouds--it’s as good as the sun, only it’s not so great; but for all that, look at it, how it’s shaking, and how pale it is; but it knows it is better than the clouds.” Little Mary looked up wonderingly in awe of Hope’s occult acquaintance with the star; but this did not strike her as Hope’s stories generally did; for she said, after a little pause,-- “I wish it were to-morrow--I wish it were the day after to-morrow.” “Why, Mary?” said Lilias.