|ONCE more my Lady is alone, except for her companion-thoughts, which are, however, no longer of a distressing nature. The reconcilement of her boys has gladdened her to the core: she thinks, she trusts at least, that the truce will be a lasting peace. As for Letty, she is all that a mother's heart could wish her to be. If much is lost to my Lady, surely much remains. With the Poor, one misery is removed only to bring another into greater prominence; but with the Rich, this is not so. Only let the disease be cured, or the quarrel be made up, which is at present vexing them, and all, for a time at least, is sunshine. Even not to be cold, not to be hungry, is something; and not to have to take thought of the morrow is a great deal. From her warm and curtained chamber, Lady Lisgard looks forth into the night. The snow falls as fast as ever, now straight, now aslant, now whirled in circular eddies by the bitter north. Through its thick and shifting veil, she can scarcely see the old church-tower of Mirk, though it stands close by within the very garden-grounds of the Abbey; nor the windmill which crowns Mirkland Hill, and on moonlit nights stands up so clear against the sky, a beacon to all the country round. It was weather which those who are armed against it call “Seasonable;” and some of the tender sex, who have a fire lit in their rooms before they rise, and go out in seal-skin, and travel with foot-warmers, even go so far as to call “Delightful.” At all events, it is such as is pleasant to watch from within for a few moments, and then to return to one's fireside with enhanced satisfaction.