Charlie was in too exalted a state of mind for curiosity about Morfa letters, but an awakening of ideas, suggested by the name, induced him to bring out a piece of information which he would otherwise probably have preferred enjoying alone.

Mother," he asked eagerly, "do you know who Mr. Carr's mother is?"

"No; how should I, my dear?" my mother answered absently, with eyes fixed on my father, who was slowly unfolding his letter.

Charlie felt that the pith of his news must be given at once, if he would command an audience.

"I'll tell you, then. She is a person you knowa person who once lived near Morfa. She is that same Lady Helen Vane of whom you have often spoken to us-who used to stay with Mr. Lester at Morfa."

I joined my mother in an almost indignant exclamation of incredulity. We both felt something too like spite against Mr. Carr to be willing to allow his mother the distinction of having ever had any connexion with Morfa. Charlie had to give up his authority for his presumptuous assertion before we would believe him, and to confess a clandestine visit to our bookseller's, where, under pretence of

wanting an address for an important letter, he had borrowed a "Burke's Landed Gentry," and studied the genealogy of the Carr family. My mother, once convinced, was as eager to hear more of her old acquaintance as Charlie was to tell what he had discovered; and we were soon so engrossed in our subject that the Morfa letter was forgotten, and my father had actually to knock upon the table when he wanted to attract our notice.

"Nesta was complaining just now," he said, "that I never read my letters aloud; would you like to hear this one?"

"Yes, indeed," we all cried.

"Dear Friend,'" my father began, "I have just been reading a letter in to-day's Times, that has strongly brought to my mind the fact that I am growing old. You were a young man when I first knew you, and now I see you have a son growing into a young man—a son, apparently, you need not be ashamed of. For old friendship's and relationship's sake, I should be glad to know more of your family. What are you going to do with this son? I shall be in London at the end of the week. Ask my niece to take me in for a day or two, and we will consult together over his future. If you can invent

any way in which I can be of use to your family, you will do me good. Yours, R. Lester.'"

It took us young ones some time to understand that the phrase "my niece" signified our mother, and that the light sentence in which it figured actually contained the astounding proposition of a visit to our house from our great uncle Mr. Lester. My exclamations of delighted surprise were, I suppose, the loudest, for I remember they brought upon me a rebuke from my mother.

"I am surprised at you, Janet," she said, a little indignantly; "you seem to think that my uncle's coming is something to laugh at. You don't consider what trouble it will cause me; and only yesterday, when you spilled the ink over the best bedroom carpet, you said it did not signify, for no visitor would ever come to our house. I hope this will be a lesson to you; it seems almost like a judgment. What are we to do, my dear" (turning to my father), "to prevent my uncle from noticing the state of the best bedroom carpet-indeed, every one of the carpets?"

Conscious of many sins of commission against the carpets, of ink-stains innumerable that might be laid to his charge, my father interposed hastily,

My

dear, I will answer for Mr. Lester's not seeing a single article of furniture while he stays. Do you suppose he comes to London to count the spots on your carpets?"

Perhaps not, my mother assented; but she appealed to my father's conscience-Could he look round and say that there was a thing in the room that he should not be ashamed of Mr. Lester's seeing?

Yes, indeed, my father assured her, he could conscientiously say that there were several things in the room of which he was not in the least ashamed -one especially, that Mr. Lester would be surprised to find so little faded; and two others that he really thought could not be matched for fairness.

A glance of smiling meaning from my mother's face to Charlie and Nesta, who were just then whispering with their beautiful heads close together, explained the enigmatical sentence to me. If it had not, my mother's countenance would. A colour, as fresh and delicate as Nesta's, rose to her cheeks; but she shook her head. Fond compliments were well, but a little carefulness over the carpets would have been still better; for, however beautiful one's children, or fond one's husband, there were feelings about furniture that lay too deep to be talked away.

My father left the room, advising my mother to ask Janet to tell her the history of a certain noble Roman lady, called Cornelia; and my mother stopped my mouth, just as I was plunging into it, by begging me earnestly to put all Roman ladies quite out of my head, and attend to some directions she should have to give me about making myself look a little more like an English one.

During the next few days, in spite of my late resolution, I was perpetually tumbling into a delightful dream-region of wonderful anticipations, where Mr. Lester, Hilary, and the man whose life he had saved, played equally conspicuous parts. When I was forcibly dragged out, I found myself in a very dusty, topsy-turvy world; for my mother's excitement at the prospect of her uncle's visit had moved her to institute a very rigorous house-cleaning, and Nesta and I were expected to take a just share in the work. In the thick of the tumult, on the eve of the day on which Mr. Lester was expected, Hilary returned. I had been longing for a sight of him. It seemed to me an immense time since he went, and his adventure, by dint of being much dwelt upon, had altered my thought of him. It was Hilary, our own Hilary, and yet it was a hero we