Eve was one of those friendless beings who are thrown entirely on their own resources, and often get on better than the more favoured children of fortune. She had an easy post as governess in the family of Mr. Gold, a rich Warwickshire merchant;--too easy, as she sometimes said. For the little Golds had holiday two or three times a week, and were not on any account to be burdened with long study hours. The house was in a perpetual bustle; visitors constantly coming and going. But if her employers were unjust to themselves, they were far from ungenerous to Eve. They would fain have had her share in all their feastings and merry-makings, and laughed and wondered at her liking for retirement and peace. There had been sickness in their household. Soon after Christmas the whole family had gone away to a sheltered watering-place, leaving Miss Hazleburn in charge of the house, and of the two servants who remained in it. She had not made many friends in the city of C----. Her Sundays were her own, and her services in the Sunday-school had won gratitude and approval from the vicar of the parish. She went occasionally, but not often, to the vicarage. The acquaintance between Morgan's parents and herself was nearly a year old. Their quiet street ran along at the back of the merchant's great house, and Eve had watched the pair sometimes from her chamber window. Then there was a chance meeting, a slight service rendered, and the governess became their friend and frequent visitor. The absence of the Golds left her at liberty to nurse Mrs. Foster in her illness. The servants, being sober and trustworthy, required little watching, and Eve's time was her own. None ever knew what it cost her to give up all her leisure to the sick woman; none guessed that a cherished plan was quietly laid aside for Mrs. Foster's sake. The manuscript which Eve had hoped to complete in these holidays of hers was put by. An inner voice told her that God meant her to use her leisure in another way; and Eve's life was so still, so free from turmoil and passion, that she could always hear the voices that spoke to her soul. Days went and came. The old rector of Huntsdean wrote kindly to his curate, bidding him stay in Warwickshire as long as his mother needed him. Nelly wrote too; such simple loving letters that every word went like a stab to Morgan's heart. She also begged him not to hasten his return for her sake. It was good for her, her father told her, to have this slight dash of bitterness in a cup that had been over-sweet. And poor Nelly made so great a show of heroism over this little trial of hers, that those of her own household smiled.