Ambition after ambition had failed her, until now all her hopes were centred in Rosalind, the beautiful daughter, in whom she saw a reproduction of herself in the days of her girlhood. She had had a dull and obscure youth; Rosalind should be the belle of society. Her own marriage had been a disappointment; Rosalind should make a brilliant alliance. She had failed to gain the prize for which she had worked; she would live again in Rosalind’s triumphs, and in them find fullest satisfaction. So Lady Darcy gloated over every detail of her daughter’s beauty, and thought day and night of her hair, her complexion, her figure, striving still to satisfy her poor, tired soul with promises of future success, and never dreaming for a moment that the prize which seemed to elude her grasp had been gained long ago by the Vicar’s wife, with her old-fashioned dress and work-worn hands. But Mrs. Asplin knew, and thanked God in her heart for, the sweetness and peace of her dear, shabby home; for the husband who loved her, and the children whom they were training to be good servants for Him in the world. Yes, and for that other child too, who had been taken away at the very dawn of his manhood, and who, they believed, was doing still better work in the unseen world. Until Lady Darcy discovered that the only true happiness rose from something deeper than worldly success, there was nothing in store for her but fresh disappointments and heart-hunger, while as for Rosalind, the unfortunate child of such a mother—— Mrs. Asplin looked at the girl as she sat leaning back in her chair, craning her throat, and showing off all her little airs and graces for the benefit of the two admiring schoolboys, gratified vanity and self love showing on every line of her face. “It seems almost cruel to say so,” she sighed to herself, “but it would be the best thing that could happen to the child if she were to lose some of her beauty before she grew up. Such a face as that is a terrible temptation to vanity.” But Mrs. Asplin did not guess how soon these unspoken words would come back to her memory, or what bitter cause she would have to regret their fulfilment. (_To be continued._) [Illustration] ALL ABOUT OATMEAL. BY DORA DE BLAQUIÈRE.