unimpaired gloss and brightness. Mr. Pennithorne was dazzled by it as he came up, and asked himself if she was superior to time as to most things else, and, after all those years, was young as well as lovely still? “I am very glad to see you,” she said, holding out her hand. “I just wanted you; it is some good fairy that has sent you so early to-day.” His face brightened up with an answering gleam; or was it only the sun that had got hold of him too, and woke reflections in his middle-aged eyes? “I am very happy to have come when you wanted me,” he said, his eyelids growing moist with pleasure. He went in to the hall, where all was comparative dusk after that brilliant shining of the noon, and sat down on the stool which was Martuccia’s usual place. “Whatever you want, Miss Mary, here I am,” her faithful servant said. Then she unfolded to him her difficulty: “Their education!” what was she to do? what could be done? Mr. Pen sat by her very sympathetically and heard everything. He was not very clever about advising, seeing that it was generally from her that he took advice, instead of giving it. But he listened, and did not see his way out of it, which of itself was a comfort to Mary. If he had been clever, and had struck out a new idea at once, it is doubtful whether she would have liked it half so well. She went into the whole question, and eased her mind at least. What was she to do? Mr. Pen shook his head. He was quite ready to take Nello, and teach him all he remembered, after a life spent in rural forgetfulness, of Latin and Greek; but Lilias! and Lilias was the most urgent as being the eldest. There was no school within reach, and a governess, as Mr. Pen suggested with a little trembling--a governess! where could Mary put her,--what could she do with her? It seemed hopeless to think of that. “I don’t know what you will think of what I am going to say--but there is Randolph, Miss Mary; he is a family man himself. I suppose--of course--he knows about the children?” “Randolph!” said Mary, faltering; “Mr. Pen, you know what Randolph is as well as I do.” “People change,” said Mr. Pen, evasively. “It is not for me to say anything; but perhaps--he ought to know.” “He has never taken any interest in the house; he has never cared to be--one of us,” said Mary. “Perhaps because he was brought up away from us. You know all about it. When he came back--when he was with you and poor John---- You know him as well as I do,” she concluded abruptly. “I don’t see what help we could have from him.” “He is a family man himself,” said the vicar. “When children come they bring new feelings; they open the heart. He was not like you--or poor John; but he was like a great many people in this world; he would not be unkind. You write to him sometimes?”