Mrs Buchanan was a cheerful, sanguine woman; she liked to have her little parlour look bright after its homely fashion, though not with tawdry embellishments, or those poor ornamental shifts of poverty with which women dwelling at home are apt to solace their vacant hours, and imitate the costly follies of their richer sisters. A little bright fire burned in the grate, not without a certain aroma which whispered of the fragrant _peat_, that helped to compose it; and the parlour with only its one candle was full of cheerful light. The gentle, kindly mother was jealous of the varying moods of her sole child, and was fain to use all simple arts to throw the spell of quiet cheerfulness over the room in which they spent these long evenings almost constantly alone. “Mrs Buchanan,” said Hope, “Helen is sad--I want you to tell me why everybody in Fendie is sad; they never used to be before--it is only this year.” Mrs Buchanan had already read her daughter’s face; but she saw that the cloud, if there had been a cloud, was gone, and that it was not expedient to speak of it. “If you will tell me, Hope, my dear,” said Helen’s good mother, “who everybody is, I shall answer your question; but I am very sure I saw a great number of people in Fendie to-day, who had no sadness about them.” “Oh, but who were they, Mrs Buchanan?” asked Hope. Mrs Buchanan smiled. “There was Robert Johnston, the grocer--he got another daughter last night; and there was Maxwell Dickson at the library--his son Robbie got a prize yesterday at the academy; and there was--” Hope was disdainful; and even the face of her friend Helen glowed into genial laughter, as she threw back her unruly hair and interrupted Mrs Buchanan in great impatience. “But I did not mean them! I was not thinking of _them_. Maxwell Dickson! as if he knew what it was to be sad--and that great lout Robbie; but I don’t care about them--it’s our own folk--it’s--” “When do you go back to Edinburgh?” interrupted Helen. “Oh, next month,” was the answer, “my mother says I may stay till Hallowe’en; but, Helen, my mother is going to ask Miss Swinton to come with me to Fendie next summer, at the vacation.” “You seem to be very fond of Miss Swinton, Hope?” said Mrs Buchanan. “Oh, yes, everybody is--you would like her too, Mrs Buchanan.” “Should I? and why do you think that, Hope?” “Oh, I know,” said Hope, in wise certainty, “because she likes Helen.” The argument was irresistible, and Mrs Buchanan confessed it, by pulling Hope’s exuberant hair. “Likes me!” the varying colour heightened on Helen’s face. “She does not know me, Hope.” “Yes, but she does, Helen,” answered the sagacious Hope, “for I used to tell her; and she knows you quite well, and she says you are brave. Helen, if you only saw Miss Swinton! but you will when she comes.” “She says I am brave;” Helen repeated the consolatory words under her breath, and asked herself “why?”