"Oh, yes; but it was mother's wish, you know," Joyce said, with a heightened colour. "Mother always feels that her family was not considered as good as father's; they were simple, homely, good people, but not what are called gentry, and I think it has always been mother's desire that Melville should have exactly the same advantages as the sons of our neighbours. Charlie Paget went to Oxford; they live at Ebbor Court; and so it seemed her eldest son ought to go. It is so strange that mother should be quite consistent on every subject but one, and that one, the indulgence of Melville; and now I believe he will break her heart." "No, no, I trust not so bad as that," Mr. Arundel said. "I have hopes that there will be a change for the better, and all this folly and aping his betters will drop off like an old cloak one day." Joyce sighed. "I wish I could have hopes too; there is always, I suppose, some cloud in everyone's sky; and we are so happy, that if it were not for Melville, we should have all we wished for. Yesterday in the hay-field I felt as if even to be alive was delicious, everything was so bright and joyful. Then Mrs. Hannah More came and invited me to Barley Wood. Have you heard of Mrs. More?" "Yes, I think I have. A very good old lady, who has set up schools for the poor children. My mother knows all about her. Will you like going to Barley Hill?" "Barley Wood," Joyce corrected. "Yes, I think I shall. Charlotte is to come also; and I dare say I shall like it when I am there, and it may do me good. You know Aunt Letitia always calls me 'a little rustic.' Of course I _am_, but I do not know that it is of such great consequence as Aunt Letitia thinks." "It would be a pity, indeed, if you were anything but what you are," Gilbert said earnestly. "A change could hardly be an improvement." "Oh, do not say that," Joyce said. "I want to _know_ more, and though I read everything I can in father's library, I do not get any new books. Ralph helps me with Latin, and Piers and I learn French together, though I expect our pronunciation would make you laugh. We have just read Madame de Stael's 'Corinne' and a story called 'Matilde,' which Charlotte lent me. Is not Piers wonderful?" she asked; "he is so happy, and have you seen his collection of moths and butterflies? You must come into his room and see them." "Yes, I should like to do so very much, if you will be showwoman." He liked to hear her talk of her simple home pleasures and interests; he liked to watch the ever-changing expression of her lovely face; he felt within himself that this hour on the hill-side, was to remain a bright memory with him for many a day, to which he would recur with pleasure, and over which no cloud could come. At last the sound of the boys' voices in the copse below, roused them both from their earnest talk, and Joyce's name rang through the still summer air-- "Joyce! Joyce! tea has been ready ever so long. Mother does not like waiting. Do come!"