glad at finding something useful to do lying ready to her hand.

Looking after all the tiny et ceteras which turn a neat room into a tasteful one, a comfortable one into a pleasant one, takes far longer than any one is willing to expect, and it was ten before this business was over-a most distasteful labour it would have been a few days before-not exactly to Barbara's taste now, only she was so glad to be doing, and just now anything that came as a duty seemed a ple sure. Barbara felt with her slow self-contained tempe this feeling would not last, that sewing on buttons, ad preparing for guests, would too soon, again, become a labour to which only duty could incite her for a continuance, but she had grown wise enough not to dwell upon this, but enjoy the spirit of active love whilst it rested upon her.

Various et ceteras, filling of sugar basins and tea caddies, putting out of preserves and other little things, going upon her knees in the garden for a few snowdrops, crocuses, and sprigs of calecanthus and winter yellow jasmin, to enliven the drawing room, and then tidying herself occupied her till eleven, leaving still a quiet hour hers before the boys came in.

She went down stairs, debating what to do with this hour, German, Macaulay, and music all fighting for it. German was a pleasant duty, history a delightful, music a distasteful one; but Barbara had, for now nearly two years, practised regularly, at least half an hour every day, so as to be able always to play something in the evening when needed.

She decided to practise now, not from a feeling that what she disliked most must always be best-she was wiser here than many far more advanced than herself in godliness-but because she felt she ought to make as respectable an appearance as she could before Miss Kelso that evening, and so be able, as eldest daughter, to head the music creditably.

The day was so lovely, soft, and mild, that the joyous spring spirit kept its hold upon her, and even playing was not half so irksome as usual, and she unconsciously prolonged her half hour into an hour, Miss Barnard's

departure first arousing her to a consciousness, both of how late it was, and how tired she was of the piece she was playing. She started up, feeling she had performed this duty most handsomely, and was shutting the piano, when Elizabeth came in, music in hand, retreating again instinctively.

"I have quite done with the piano, Bessie."

"Thank you-yes," began Elizabeth's soft timid voice, "I thought, if you were practising, you would try this duet with me."

"What?' I would that my love!'-Oh, Elizabeth, I really cannot sing a bit."

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Only papa seemed to like this, and wish for it again."

'I can't so expose myself again; even David, who doesn't know a note of music, was giggling; what little voice I might have had once is quite gone.'

Elizabeth still lingered.

"Well, leave it," said Barbara, rather roughly, "if we do have to sing it again, of course you don't want it to be such a hash as last time-I will sing my part through. You know yours, so you needn't wait.'

66 Thank you," Elizabeth answered, and went.

Barbara practised the perplexing bars through, and then shut the piano with all her old disgust, "Oh, dear! how I wish I had never learnt a note!"

And little Miss Brown, the curate's daughter, had been sighing in vain for years for one of the musical advantages freely bestowed on Barbara Wynne!

The boys did not come in till dinner-time, and at that meal behaved exemplarily; Hargrave had some exhibition work over which he was busy every spare minute, Will was too heavy and oppressed to dream of being obstreperous, and David, if but left alone, as he was to-day, was never any trouble.

Gordon did not come in much before dinner; Barbara had asked him how he had got on and he had answered, "Brown is a brute!"

Words that immediately dispelled all her kindliness, and brought upon him a well-merited lecture for such irreverence to his clergyman. Gordon having the last

word, however, by saying as he walked off after it, "He is, though, for all that!"

The truth was, he had been found so backward in every kind of learning, that Mr. Brown had been obliged to class him amongst the boys in petticoats and belts, of whose education Mrs. Brown took almost entire charge, a proceeding deeply galling to a boy advanced for now two months to jacket and trousers.

As soon as the schoolboys were off again came a message from Mrs. Wynne, that of course Miss Barbara would drive to meet Miss Kelso.

"Oh, dear," sighed Barbara, as soon as Hannah was gone, "I thought I should have been clear of her for another hour at least; and how awkward when I don't know her a bit."

"Do you think I could go after a moment's hesitation.

instead ?" asked Elizabeth,

"Oh, no, I am eldest daughter, of course all the disagreeables must come on me. Well, then, I must be thinking of getting ready," and she left the room.

Elizabeth sat on over her work, wondering how she had expressed her offer so as to vex her sister, or whether her vexation now was the fruit of her having brought the duet forward at what she had thought the right time, but had proved the wrong one. Wondering how it was, poor girl! she always did seem to speak and do at the wrong times. Barbara meanwhile dressed, wondering how she could be so cowardly time after time as to vent her annoyances on one so sure never to return or resent such conduct as Elizabeth, sensitive as she was.

"Oh, dear," she sighed, as she tied her bonnet-strings, "and this is the sister who this morning meant never to be put out or ungracious again!" and her lip curled at herself.

She still lingered before the glass unconsciously, at last looking up, "How plain I am, this girl Isabella can never like me! Ah, perhaps she will Elizabeth, she is better than pretty, so good and sweet-looking, perhaps she will make her the companion I have never been, and make up for my ungraciousness."

This thought (as also unconsciously the felt but

unformed addition, "and I shall get rid of her!") brightened poor unsociable Barbara for the minute, but not

more.

"Nonsense!" she thought, "will her taking to her make my doing so the least more excusable? I ought to be sorry for my crossness and tell her so. I will-but first-" Barbara knelt down for one minute, then ran down stairs. Elizabeth was still at her work.

"I have been looking in Bradshaw," she said, timidly, "and see the train does not reach the Marsh station till 3.15, not 2.30, as it used. I suppose cousin Isabella will find it is altered with this month."

"At any rate," answered Barbara, as brightly as she could, she can't come earlier if she would, so I have half-an-hour to wait, and I told James to be sure to be punctual. Thank you for saving my waiting at the station, though, and-I am sorry I was so cross just now, it was very good of you to think of going in my place, but though I grumble at the eldest daughter's duties I would not really give up one, even giving out treacle and sugar!" two things Barbara abhorred, though not so her brothers.

Elizabeth looked up pleased and grateful, murmuring some unintelligible words which Barbara did not ask her to repeat, thinking there had been quite enough of a scene already.

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"I shall get half-an-hour at Macaulay, at any rate," she said, 66 or stay," as she sat down, that poor little invalid Brown, is there time to go round for her? she did so enjoy mamma's picking her up in the autumn. Only ten minutes past two-yes, I'm sure we could, but I must ask mamma."

Up Barbara ran, seldom having spoken so much unnecessarily before about any deed, good or bad. She knocked, was told to come in and found Mrs. Wynne resting on the sofa after dressing.

"You are in good time, Barbara."

"Yes, too good, for Elizabeth finds the train arrives three quarters of an hour later this month-but as I and the carriage are both ready, should you mind my going to the Browns and proposing to take little Amy for a drive ?”

"Not at all, my dear, you needn't have come up to ask me such a thing as that."

"I like to ask you, mother; being independent is not the way to be happy."

"But a help to be happy very often. I only mean if I had been too unwell to let you in, I hope you would have gone without leave. Yes, pray take her, poor child; I hope they won't keep you waiting as long as they did me."

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Good-bye, mamma!" and away Barbara ran, not only down stairs, but actually down the steps and flags to the carriage itself. "To Mrs. Brown's, Myrtle Cottage, James," and off they drove.

A few minutes brought them there. Barbara was considerate enough not to alight needlessly into a household of six children and one maid, but sent in her love to Miss Amy and would she like a drive?

Out came Mr. Brown himself in return, saying so earnestly how kind it was of her to remember the pleasure a drive had given his little girl last autumn, Barbara felt most heartily ashamed that she had never thought of it before.

"Now the spring is coming, I hope you will often let her come with us," she said in answer, "the winter has been so cold and long-no, I won't invent false excuses,' blushing, but looking the curate in the face, "I believe if I had looked out for them I might have found plenty of days on which you would not have been afraid to trust her out."

"But this is the first true spring day, bright as well as mild; I am sorry not to see Mrs. Wynne with you." "She is not very well, she has been a good deal tried lately," answered honest Barbara.

"Ah, Mrs. Cradock, poor thing! I hope you have better accounts from her."

"No, I cannot say we do; I think she feels her baby's loss now more than ever-the second, it does seem so hard when so many-"

Barbara stopped and coloured, but had not tact enough to divert the subject.

"It was just the age of my little one, I remember, born the same month; our sixth, but we could not spare