If the arching forehead and mobile face bespoke imagination and keen sensibilities, the square jaw and resolute mouth gave token, no less, of strength and self-control. "And all her sorrow shall be turned to labour," said Gertrude to herself, half-unconsciously. Then something within her laughed in scornful protest. Sorrow? on this spring day, with the young life coursing in her veins, with all the world before her, an undiscovered country of purple mists and boundless possibilities. There were hints of a vague delight in the sweet, keen air; whisperings, promises, that had nothing to do with pyrogallic acid and acetate of soda; with the processes of developing, fixing, or intensifying. A great laburnum tree stood at one end of the lawn, half-flowered and faintly golden; a blossoming almond neighboured it, and beyond, rose a gnarled old apple tree, pink with buds. Birds were piping and calling to one another from all the branches; the leaves of the trees, the lawn, the shrubs, and bushes, wore the vivid and delicate verdure of early spring; life throbbed, and pulsed, and thrust itself forth in every available spot. Gertrude, as we know, was by way of being a poet. She had a rebellious heart that cried out, sometimes very inopportunely, for happiness. And now, as she drank in the wonders of that April morning, she found herself suddenly assailed and overwhelmed by a nameless rapture, an extreme longing, half-hopeful, half-despairing. Sorrow, labour; what had she to do with these? "I love all things that thou lovest Spirit of delight!" cried the voices within her, with one accord. "Please, Miss," said Kettle, suddenly appearing, and scattering the thronging visions rather rudely; "the people have come from the Pantechnicon about those cameras, and the other things you said was to go." "Yes, yes," answered Gertrude, rubbing her eyes and wrinkling her brows--curious, characteristic brows they were; straight and thick, and converging slightly upwards--"everything that is to go is ready packed in the studio." They had decided on retaining a little furniture, besides the photographic apparatus and studio fittings, for the establishment of the new home, wherever and whatever it should be. "Very well, Miss Gertrude. And shall I bring you up a little luncheon?" "No, thank you, Kettle. And I must say good-bye, and thank you for all your kindness to us." "God bless you, Miss Gertrude, every one of you! I have made so bold as to give my address-card to Miss Phyllis; and if there's anything in which I can ever be of service, don't you think twice about it, but write off at once to Jonah Kettle." Overcome by his own eloquence, and without waiting for a reply, the old man shuffled off down the path, leaving Gertrude strangely touched by this unexpected demonstration.