"I don't mind if I do. Yes, I think I can. I've had a racking headache for two days, and that might rid me of it." "And the rest of you?" "I wish you may get my father—no hope, I'm afraid. Ethel, yes—you must insist upon that. She has so little pleasure. Most likely the note is there, not opened. I can't go back with you, but you'll find Ethel." "Mind you are at the bottom of Mr. Carden-Cox's garden—11.40 sharp!" "All right. I'll come: if nothing prevents." Nigel went on to the Rectory, and after a moment's hesitation entered by the front door without ringing, as of old. Why not? Nobody was in the hall; so he went to the dining-room, and found nobody there either. Ethel's workbasket stood open on the table, and a pair of socks with big holes lay beside it, while the little silver thimble had dropped to the floor. Nigel lifted and placed it on the table, then he walked to the rug, and saw upon the mantelpiece a note addressed to "Miss Elvey" in Mr. Carden-Cox's handwriting. But the note had not been opened. "What a shame! It ought to have been given to her." Nigel did not realise that the two young Rectory maids, having all the work of the house on their hands, were glad to spare themselves needless runs up and down stairs; indeed, they had instructions so to do. At the Grange maids were plentiful, with scarcely enough work to keep them out of mischief. Ethel had been upstairs when the note came, so the cook laid it on the mantelpiece. Later she forgot to mention it to Ethel, or to say that an answer would be called for. "I wonder if she will come," thought Nigel. He went to the bookcase and stood there gazing. A good many aged volumes of sermons, bound in venerable calf, helped to fill the shelves. No doubt their continued existence was owing mainly to their calf attire; since nobody ever read them. Also many modern specimens of boys' books could be seen, in coats of faded red or blue. Nigel knew these well. He had been a book-devourer in boyhood, and had borrowed every readable volume from his friends. Ethel did not appear, and he pulled out one or two, smiling at the tremendous boyish adventures depicted in the illustrations, and handling them kindly as old friends. A plain black volume, pushed half in among the rest, fell to the ground; and a sheet of paper fluttered out. Ethel's handwriting! The heading was "Extracts," and Nigel read what followed without compunction. I. "There is something more awful in happiness than in sorrow, the latter being earthly and finite, the former composed of the substance and texture of Eternity, so that spirits still embodied may well tremble at it." ¹ II. "The great cure to be wrought in us is the cure of self-will, that we may learn self-resignation; and all God various dealings with us have this one end in view." ² ¹ N. Hawthorne. ² R. Suckling. III.