Queenie knew all about Cathy's home--the dull old house at Hepshaw, overlooking the churchyard and the plane-tree walk. She had even pictured to herself the granite quarries, where Garth Clayton spent long hard-working days. Cathy was never weary of talking about Garth. She would expatiate for hours on his virtues. Was he not the stay and prop of the little household? Did not even Langley, the motherly elder sister, go to him for advice and counsel? The handsome younger brother, long, lazy Ted, was spoken about more seldom. "Ted is just Ted," Cathy would say sometimes, in reply to Queenie's half quizzical interrogations. "A dear old fellow, of course; but he cannot hold a candle to Garth. Why Garth is a perfect king in Hepshaw. There is no one more respected. The work he does among the quarry-men perfectly astonishes our new vicar. He has classes for them, and teaches them himself, and plays cricket with them, and gets up entertainments and lectures in the school-room. Why, the men perfectly adore him." "How I should like to live at Hepshaw!" Queenie would answer sometimes, sighing she hardly knew why. Cathy's descriptions somehow fascinated her oddly. The little straggling market town, with its long, winding street or road; the old Deerhound Inn; the white workhouse, the church and vicarage, standing high, and overlooking the town, and set prettily among plane trees; the dark old 'Church-stile House,' with its gloomy entry, and back windows looking over the ancient monuments and tomb-stones--Queenie could see them all. She could even fancy herself walking up the steep, narrow garden of the Vicarage, between tall bushes of roses and lavender. "The Vicarage is such an ugly, bare-looking little house; quite a shabby cottage; only Mr. Logan has made it so comfortable, and has added a room to it, such a nice room, which he has made out of the stable. I think you would like Mr. Logan, Queenie; he is quite old, nearly forty, I should think. People say he is very plain, but I think he has a nice, funny face; and he is such a character, and wears such old, patched coats, and Miss Cosie always calls him Kit, or 'Christopher, my dear.'" "And who might Miss Cosie be?" Queenie asked, with an amused air; she dearly loved Cathy's descriptions. "Oh, Miss Cosie was Charlotte Logan; she was his sister, and kept his house. Every one called her Miss Cosie, even the poor people; it was a name she got when a child." No, she could not describe her; she was a little woman with two big brown curls pinned to her face, and she always wore a soft grey Shetland shawl, and cooed out her words in a soft, plaintive fashion; she only wished Queenie could see her, and then Queenie sighed again.