Of course beneath all this high experience ran the undercurrent of simple daily living. Lucy was in no danger of losing hold of the practical. She had her regular duties at the Institute, and many little opportunities for the exercise of tact and common sense at home. The little household had a real organic unity in its common service of true friendship, but that did not rub off all the little human angles. Sometimes Pollie would say that “Mrs. May was more particular than a real mistress.” Sometimes Miss Latimer found a trial in the romps of Hugh and Tom Black. Mr. Somerset adopted vegetarianism and puzzled Mrs. May by desiring her to concoct dishes which seemed to her unsatisfactory and uncanny. But each trusted the other. Everybody knew that everybody meant well. If a sharp word were spoken unwarily, a kind word followed hard upon it. Each understood that all joys and trials were common property; shares therein might differ, but everybody had a share. So the weeks grew into months, and the months completed a year. One evening Lucy was sitting in the dining-room glancing over her completed balance sheet with its tiny “surplus,” when suddenly it seemed to her that there was a new sound in the very rumble of the cab which was depositing Mr. Somerset as usual at the door, after his day’s study at the British Museum. She looked up, her pen in her hand listening. Mr. Somerset generally went straight to his own apartments. Occasionally, however, when he had any news to tell or any request to make, he looked in upon the little party in the dining-room. He did so now. He sat down on the sofa and said abruptly— “Mrs. Challoner, do you think joy ever hurts anybody?” “Surely not,” she said, looking up with wide eyes. “The Bible says that hope deferred maketh the heart sick, but that when the desire cometh, it is a tree of life.” “Do you feel sure, dear friend, that you could bear——” She had risen from her seat with clasped hands. “Mr. Somerset, Mr. Somerset!” she gasped. He rose too. “Trust me,” he said, gently leading her mind to its new attitude. “I would not stir expectation ever so lightly for nothing. To-day I have received a message from the shipping office to deliver to you. Listen! The long looked-for word has come at last. Charlie lives! Charlie is quite well! Charlie is coming home! He is on his way!” Lucy did not faint. She did not cry out. She sat quite quiet for a moment, and then broke into a peal of low happy laughter, which died away in a flood of soft healing tears, from which she looked up and said— “Is it all true? Is it quite true? I can scarcely believe it!” (_To be continued._) THE PLEASURES OF BEE-KEEPING. BY F. W. L. SLADEN. PART V.