The morning rises dimly, There are clouds and there is rain, But always the sun is there-- So softly breaking, parting like the mists About the hills, the dismayed sorrow looses Her heavy veil and cloak of mourning from her, And sometimes smiling, sometimes weeping, like The skies in April, lifts her head again, And looks upon the light. “Miss Maxwell,” said Hope Oswald, as she sat on a low chair by the side of Lilias on the morning of Hallowe’en, the last day she was to spend at home: “you have never seen Helen Buchanan yet;--I should like so much to let you see her before I go away.” “And you are going away to-morrow, Hope?” said Lilias. “Yes,” said Hope, disconsolately; “my father is to take me to-morrow. I should be so glad, Miss Maxwell, if you only knew Helen.” “Well, Hope,” said Lilias, “you must contrive to introduce us to each other to-night. I see no other way of accomplishing it.” “But, Miss Maxwell,” said Hope, with some confusion, “Helen will not be at our house to-night,--she never comes to our house--she always stays at home.” “And why does she always stay at home?” Hope’s face flushed indignantly. “Because she has to keep a school--not a school for young ladies--and because she is proud, and other people are foolish and do not know what it is to be a gentlewoman;--and because my father--” Hope paused, perceiving that it might not be necessary to publish the faults of her father. At the same time Hope was very anxious to make Lilias useful in her absence as a means of proclaiming the excellencies of Helen; and there was yet another thing which Hope desired to make Lilias understand,--that William was by no means an eligible _parti_, whatever his father or Mossgray might say to the contrary. Hope had never heard yet of the mysterious Indian letters, and did not know that Lilias was as completely fortified against the attractions of William as he was from hers. “Because she keeps a school, and because she is proud,” repeated Lilias; “but she has been here in Fendie all her life--and she must have friends.” “Oh, yes,” answered Hope, promptly, “she has plenty of friends; only you know, Miss Maxwell, nobody she cares about--I don’t mean that either--I mean there is nobody like herself--I never saw any one like Helen but you.” “And am I like Helen?” Hope looked up at the calm, pensive face before her with its fair still features, and faint colour, and thoughtful melancholy eyes--and confessed to herself that it was not so. “No--I don’t mean you are like in the face--only--” Hope paused and was puzzled, “only you are Helen’s age--and you are alone--and--you are a gentlewoman.” Lilias smiled. “Thank you, Hope, for your good opinion; but perhaps if Miss Buchanan is so proud she would not like me to call on her.” “Oh, would you go?” exclaimed Hope--“Oh, Miss Maxwell, if you would only go! I did not mean that Helen was proud--only she does not care for people who do not care for her.”