“Have you seen so many, Hope?” said Helen, with an uneasy flush upon her face, and with some evident interest in the question; those constantly moving features were sad telltales. “I mean just the people I care about,” said Hope; “there is poor William. I do not know what ails William--for he sat in the dark like you, last night, and will always lean his head upon his hands, and sigh--sigh--and my mother--I wish you would not all be so sad.” Helen Buchanan turned round to examine the contents of her work-basket. Her slender figure was very slightly drawn up; something almost imperceptible like the faint touch of wind upon leaves passed over her; you could not tell what it was, though you could read its swift expression as clearly as written words. Pride--sympathy--a conciousness that moved her heart and yet made it firmer; but Hope’s piece of incidental information did not sadden the face of Helen. Hope had a comprehension of--though she could by no means have explained how she comprehended--the silent language of Helen Buchanan’s looks and motions; and she arrived at a pretty accurate conclusion in her own simple and shrewd reasonings on the subject. Mrs Buchanan came in so soon that she could try no further experiments with Helen; but as she past through the dim road, half-street, half-lane, in which their house stood, and came into the quiet Main Street of Fendie, with its half-shut shops and groups of wayside talkers, great schemes began to germinate within the small head of Hope Oswald. If only that very unreasonable opposition of her father’s could be overcome, Hope decided that William would be condemned to draw long breaths in the dark no longer. “Miss Swinton says I am sensible,” mused Hope within herself, “and my father says I am clever. I don’t know--I think it will turn out the right way some time, and we shall all be very happy, but just now--I will try!” And immediately there flitted before the eyes of Hope, in the gentle darkness of the April night, a fairy appearance, we do not venture to say it was anything very ethereal. It was only a vision of a lilac satin frock like that famous one which Miss Adelaide Fendie, of Mount Fendie, wore at her sister’s marriage, and very fascinating was the gleam which it shed about the young schemer as she lingered at her father’s door. Hope Oswald was only fourteen. CHAPTER V. We must at first endure The simple woe of knowing they are dead-- A soul-sick woe in which no comfort is-- And wish we were beside them in the dust! That anguish dire cannot sustain itself, But settles down into a grief that loves, And finds relief in unreproved tears. Then cometh sorrow, like a Sabbath! Heaven Sends resignation down and faith; and last Of all there falls a kind oblivion Over the going out of that sweet light In which we had our being.--PROFESSOR WILSON.