Already, as her slight fingers sorted the worsteds and her graceful taste shaded their hues into blended harmony, her mind was weaving, not less harmoniously, the hues in the woof of dreams,--the cottage home, the harmless tasks, Waife with his pipe in the armchair under some porch, covered like that one yonder,--why not?--with fragrant woodbine, and life if humble, honest, truthful, not shrinking from the day, so that if Lionel met her again she should not blush, nor he be shocked. And if their ways were so different as her grandfather said, still they might cross, as they had crossed before, and--the work slid from her hand-- the sweet lips parted, smiling: a picture came before her eyes,--her grandfather, Lionel, herself; all three, friends, and happy; a stream, fair as the Thames had seemed; green trees all bathed in summer; the boat gliding by; in that boat they three, borne softly on,--away, away,--what matters whither?--by her side the old man; facing her, the boy's bright kind eyes. She started. She heard noises,--a swing ing gate, footsteps. She started,--she rose,--voices; one strange to her,--a man's voice,-- then the Mayor's. A third voice,--shrill, stern; a terrible voice,-heard in infancy, associated with images of cruelty, misery, woe. It could not be! impossible! Near, nearer, came the footsteps. Seized with the impulse of flight, she sprang to the mouth of the arbour. Fronting her glared two dark, baleful eyes. She stood,--arrested, spellbound, as a bird fixed rigid by the gaze of a serpent. "Yes, Mr. Mayor; all right! it is our little girl,--our dear Sophy. This way, Mr. Losely. Such a pleasant surprise for you, Sophy, my love!" said Mrs. Crane.