These little refreshments are by way of lunch; for the steward and housekeeper intend to dine in London-put the cost under the head of 66 expenses," to " 'my lady's account and further, Miss Tidd has resolved to invest some pound or two in real "Valenciennes lace" and a new gown, and let the cost work itself out of some of the items which figure in her weekly bills. She is conscious of being wise in her own generation.

When, for the twentieth time, she has made sure that "the key, which locks up the keys," is safe, and the fat old cook will be not likely to get a little extra jam-or Beech, the thirty years' butler, a little arrowroot or other delicacy for his sick dame the pair leave the hall by a door in one of the ivied gables, and pursue their way along the mile-long avenue of magnificent old chesnut trees to the village; whence they are to take a coach to St. Alban's, and thence, by railway, to London.

Any hearts but theirs would be alive to the enchanting beauty of the morningto the rustic loveliness of the scene around -to the sequestered stillness of old paths and glades which steal out here and there. But they are dead, and blind, and deaf, to all they see and hear, and proceed onward moodily, talking of "my lady" and her affairs, and of the "

folly of an old woman like her taking a young girl as a companion."

"I'm sure, Tippins," says Miss Tidd, "that though I ain't edicated, I read quite well enough for her. To be sure, I sometimes put a h in when I shouldn't, and leave one out when I oughtn't, and didn't spell well, as she said-but I got on well enough for all that; threaded her needles for her endless humdrum worsted work, and did just everything she wished, whimsical and tiresome as she is. But, howsumever, she shall be soon wearied of a companion,' or my name ain't Matilda Tidd."

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"That'll be the only way," rejoins Tippins, as he brushes his mulberry nose sagaciously, or you don't know what may come on it. She's a perverse old woman when she takes it in her head, as we've reason to know, better than most folks." Then, after a pause, Ay, it is monstrous vexatious, just as the bit in the funds is getting up to sich a nice figure, and our tackle for the 'Chauncy Arms' almost nigh took. But you must manage her, my dear; you're an uncommon sagacious woman, and much don't stand amiss to you when you likes." Here Mr. Tippins feels particularly thirsty, and

would like to have the sherry uncorked and tasted-but he is conscious of Miss Tidd's icy humor, and refrains.

Just at this juncture, they meet a little village child, going with a pitcher towards the hall. She drops a courtesy of great humility, but is not suffered to pass on.

What are you going up to the house for ?" "Some buttermilk, ma'am." "There is none."

"Please, ma'am, dairymaid said there'd be plenty this morning."

I say there is none. I'm Mrs. Tidd, the housekeeper, and must surely know best. Go back, I say, and my lady shall hear of your impertinence."

The child needs no second dismissal-she glides back from their path, as a worm from the foot that would crush it.

"That's Dodd the thatcher's girl," says mulberry nose," and it's just like the imperence on 'em. Ever since the father got a fall from Jones's barn they think one has nothing to do but to keep open house for 'em."

Just so," replies Tidd, "but I ain't going to let Martha carry favor with the buttermilk. It'll help to get them two porkers into flesh, and so turn a penny by 'em."

The steward nods a complaisant assent. At this bend of the avenue they meet a woodman going to his work. He touches his forelock with great apparent humility-then plods onward. But by-and-by he turns, looks after them, and shakes his head. Then he strikes into a woodland path, and whistles as he goes. He is guiltless of gathering corrupt riches, and so can feel delight in the freshness of the morning, clodhopper though he be.

At the lodge, just within the park gates, the steward stops to grumble at an old man working in the little garden, and from thence, proceeding to the adjacent village, the pair make their way to the "Chauncy Arms," the landlord giving them a kindly welcome; he being entirely innocent of "the tackle " already referred to. The coach arrivesMiss Tidd gets within; Mr. Tippins mounts the box-and, as it passes through the village, great is the gossip concerning the steward and housekeeper's mission. It is known that they will bring home, this evening, "my lady's companion," and some, sighing, say "Poor thing," and others shake their head.

An hour's ride by picturesque old woods, worthy of leafy Hertfordshire, brings them to St. Alban's. By noon, Tidd and Tippins are in town; and a short while after at the

office of Mrs. who supplies the world with 66 governesses and companions," just as the greengrocer supplies potatoes or cabbages. Expecting to be treated with the deference due to my "lady's steward" and "lady's housekeeper," Tidd and Tippins are vastly disgusted at being ushered into no more dignified a place than a dirty waitingroom, already tenanted by some score shabbygenteel people of either sex, combined with a small sprinkling of elaborately attired plushes. Butterflies amidst lugubrious moths! Presently the housekeeper is informed that Lady Chauncy's business is at that time under consideration-that a selection of eligible candidates having been already made, and their references inquired after, Miss Atkinson, Lady Chauncy's friend, is closeted with Mrs.

in relation to the final decision-this to be effected as soon as one or two lagging candidates arrive. Such being the state of affairs, there is nothing for the pair but patience; this necessary virtue of human life being, in their case, by no means augmented by Tidd's non-summons to the consultation and selection, and by Tippins's non-ability to slightly refresh himself on the well-roasted fowl and delicate sherry.

To amuse themselves, they observe everything and everybody with true flunkey superciliousness. They observe the line of carriages before the windows, and arrive at the knowledge that their mistress's friend does not keep one, but "only jobs a private cab;" next they watch all comers and goers, and have convictions of their own concerning the same. They notice the various "companions" as they pass or repass, and wonder if the selection is yet made. They intuitively like or dislike the faces as they pass by; for some, they think, would be venal instruments in their hands as regards "my lady;" others too lofty for even their mere preliminaries towards baseness.

Half-an-hour may have gone by, when flunkeyism is discredited by the arrival of a humble cab, from which alight a young girl attired in deep mourning, and a middle-aged woman clad likewise. The latter bears the appearance of a maid of all-work, and, as she follows the young girl into the house, she is seen to be crying bitterly. They come into the room together, and the young girl's first care is to lead her humble companion to a seat, and then herself prepares to follow the attending servant. But the woman sobs on, burying her face in her coarse shawl, and the young girl steps back again.

"Don't, please, cry," she says, "dear Susan. I may not be selected, and then your tears will have been purposeless.' She says this in a very low and sweet voice, and, unconsciously, turns her face towards those who watch her as she speaks. It is not, strictly speaking, a beautiful face-but it is full of intelligence and human goodness; and there is a freshness and extreme youth in the small rounded figure. Instinctively Miss Tidd hates the girl-she has a sort of presentiment that this will be "my lady's companion"-the one with whom she shall wage war, or live in amity. When the girl has followed the attendant, Miss Tidd condescends to accost thick-shouldered, weeping Susan; but that good soul's grief is too real to reply other than by monosyllables; but Miss Tidd elicits sufficient to understand that the young girl is one of the selected candidates that she is the orphan daughter of a lately deceased Dissenting clergyman, and that her name is Janet Gordon.

Eagerly Miss Tidd now watches to see what candidates pass on their way out—and, verily, all repass, except the one last come. She is then herself summoned to the awful

presence of Mrs. and "my lady's "

friend, Miss Atkinson.

"I have attended to the qualifications required by my friend Lady Chauncy," interrupts the gentlewoman, "and they are fully possessed by Miss Gordon. Your sole duty is now to attend her to Chauncy Manor."

Thus rebuffed, Miss Tidd doggedly retires, mentally resolving, however, to have due compensation not only from "the companion,” but when Miss Atkinson shall again herself visit Chauncy Manor. And Tidd has consoling visions of darned sheets, scentless soap, a scanty supply of towels, and other désagré ments best known to housekeepers. Again descending, the housekeeper awaits Miss Gordon, who presently comes down.

"Mr. Tippins, the steward, and I can't be attending you all day," she says thus making her first address to "the companion." "We

"Six o'clock," says Tippins, "or rather-" Here the keeper of manorial accounts draws Tidd aside, and whispers, "One might just call for her, and see her place; it may turn up in the tackle, you know."

Tidd thinks this a bright idea; so she says they will call for the young person—and then asks her address.

"It will be out of your way, I fear, for I live at Street, Hackney. But if you wish it, please let it be so. If you could come by five o'clock, I should be glad, as I need to go round by the City, to bid my young brother good bye; he is in a merchant's counting-house, and cannot leave so early."

A dry assent is given, and Janet and Susan depart. Tippins and Tidd then repair to a neighboring coffee-house to lunch off the fowl and sherry-to order a luxurious dinner -at a certain West End hotel, where they are intimate with the head waiter-and to transact the shopping, whose price is to be eked out of soap and sundries.

By five they reach Hackney, and find the little old-fashioned street the address has given. There are yet glimpses about it of what Hackney was in old days-remnants of fields are to be seen-gardens lie behindand in the distance Hackney Marshes look emerald in the sun. At a small respectablelooking house that by the litter round, and by the empty rooms, seems as though a sale had been effected within a day or two-they find Miss Gordon. Susan comes to the door, with eyes more swollen than in the morning, and leads them into a room with but scanty furniture in it, a small box or two, a chest full of books, and a fine oil painting of a man. It is that of Janet's father, you can see, by the likeness to her and by the clerical dress. The man has borne a Scotch name, but it is not a Scotch face; or, at least, one that owes its best portion to the English type. By the tea-things, Janet and Susan have just had tea, and the former is ready dressed to go.

"Good bye, dear Susy," says the young

girl, as she cleaves to her humble friend. "You shall hear from me very often. So keep up your heart. I and Archie love you dearly, you know. Let me know if you're happy in the room you've taken, and how you get on with the work you have been promised. You and Archie shall both come and see me. Be sure and take care of that beloved portrait, and his books; and if I have a room that I can put them in, you shall send them."

Tidd must have her say here. It is her vocation to pour wormwood into every honeyed cup. "My lady allows no followers, and, as your room will be small, lumber will not be permitted."

No answer is given, though the incredibly wanton insult sinks deep; and deeper falls Janet's tears as she follows flunkeyism to the cab.

It is driven to Botolph Lane, in the City. Here, in one of the most princely of the City firms, Janet has an only brother, a boy of thirteen. She alights, and goes up into one of the now almost deserted offices, unfollowed by Tidd and Tippins, and here she says her farewell.

"Be steady and truthful, Archie," she says, " and the Messrs. will be kind friends, I am sure. Above all, don't forget the least thing papa taught you."

The boy promises, and talks about Chauncy Manor, and going to see her there. She does not like to tell him what incubuses Tidd and Tippins seem to be, though she thinks it best to say, that it appears that he will not be allowed to visit her.

"But they can't help my coming to the village and just stealing into the park," says the boy; "and I will see you, Janet, if only at a distance.'

Miss Gordon is now going-but the door of a private office opens, and the head clerk, a gentlemanly old man, beckons her in. To her inquiries, he says that her brother is steady and truthful, has been noticed by the heads of the firm, and will be promoted from time to time, if he continue in the same

extreme beauty of the old sylvan-shadowed hall. The moonlight lies upon the marish pools, and stretches in silvery pathways to the doors, worthy of the feet which bring in love and peace!

Tidd at once seeks my lady, who has not retired. In a little while she returns, and, bidding Miss Gordon follow her, leads her through a noble hall into a nobler room, where a thin, withered lady of about sixty sits reading what seems to be a small manual of devotion. The two candles which give her light, give little to the room itself, though it needs it not, for it is flooded by the light of the moon, through two noble oriel windows, which look far away across the park.

Tidd prepares to remain through this first interview, but is dismissed, though falteringly, by my lady.

For some minutes this austere, proud-looking woman sits regarding the young stranger without a word. Then she says abruptlywithout preface of any kind—

"There are two things to which I somewhat object with respect to you-your youth, and the religious opinions in which you have been reared. What is the former? I forget exactly.

"I was sixteen last month, madam." "You look older; but that is well. You will not object, I hope, to attend the village church."

"No, madam. I have already said so. I have been reared to care for the spirit and duties of religion rather than particular formulas."

“Ring the bell.”

She is obeyed, and the old butler appears. "As the chaplain is from home, you or Tippins can read prayers in the servants' hall. Miss Gordon reads to me to-night."

The books are brought, and Janet reads prayers in a low, sweetly modulated voice. For months previously they have been drawled out by Tidd, in the vicious nasal twang of a parish school boy, and have fallen unfruitfully on the ears that heard them; to-night, the peace, the charity, the forgiveness asked for, seem couched in other words, and have a significance they never had before.

When she has risen, Janet awaits her ladyship's commands.

'As you read well, I shall expect you to

read prayers in my room every morning at eight o'clock. At nine I breakfast, at which you will assist; after that I walk on the southern terrace, and then return to reading and needlework. Now, as I daresay you are tired, you may retire-good night."

Janet has a question to ask her; and she thinks that it will be best to do so at once. "I am an early riser, madam. You will not object, I presume, to my employing my time before eight o'clock in exercise or other duty ?"

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By no means. You look pale and delicate; and, as this is summer weather, get all the air you can. The park and grounds are considered to be amongst the loveliest in Hertfordshire. The gardener shall have my personal order to give you every privilege."

Janet now retires. She likes her new mistress much better than she expected she should; under a cold, proud exterior, with many perverted, bigoted, and selfish notions, she perceives that there is much which is sterling, and she resolves to bear and forbear.

The tug of war will, as she perceives, be with Tidd; and she determines to let silence be an effective weapon in the contest.

It begins without loss of time. Lady Chauncy having received Janet so kindly, Tidd, to make the counter-balance, orders in the driest scraps of meat from the kitchen, says she is too tired herself to eat, and, when this supper is over, bids the young girl go to bed with the air of a slavedriver. Janet finds the room-little more than a closet-as such it has hitherto been used-with a sloping roof, and small window, looking dismally forth on to the leads of a gable. A stump bedstead, a dark counterpane, a cracked looking-glass, a minute chest of drawers of remote age, and one chair, constitute the decorations of this dog-hole; for such it really is, compared to any other sleeping-chamber in Chauncy Hall. Yet, with all her extreme quietude of character, and her youth, Janet is quick of perception and judgment, and reads things aright-the act is Tidd's, and not one arising from "my lady's" orders; and she prays that night for strength to endure.

She is up betimes in the morning; for, though Tidd has had the ability to shut out the sight of the grand old woods and glistening pools which lie around, it has not been hers to shut out the sweet air of the summer morning, or the cawing of the young rooks in the rookery near: she goes down stairs, and so forth by a little postern-door on to one of the fine old terraces. Early as it is, most of

the servants and laborers are about; the scent of hay-making in the park comes upon the wind; and the woodmen can be heard at work in the copses. From terrace to terrace she wanders, goes down the grassy slopes that lie between, and wonders at the beauty and abundance of the flowers. She so loves nature and its beauties, that the place seems fairyland. About the middle of a sequestered terrace, which leads into the woodland, is a rustic seat-it seems, by the moss and lichens that cover it, to be but little frequented—and, as it has such a quaint oldfashioned look, is overhung by trees, and shrouded in by brushwood, it pleases her extremely; and here she resolves to bring her books and work, whenever her leisure permit. It will be as a room to her, formed by nature's hand. From this sweet old place, which lies above the park, she wanders down into the park itself; it is full of fine old trees, and exquisitely shaded pools of deep and crystal water, fringed with sedges and waving rushes. Near at hand the hay-makers are at work, and where the sward has been left untouched, and cattle graze, the last cowslips of the season give forth their scented breath. As she returns through the gardens, she meets Mr. Mellow, a kindly looking old man, who is too politic and circumspect to wage open war with Tidd and Tippins; but he likes them not. He is glad of this opportunity of speaking to and making his judgment on the new spirit which may, or may not, reign at Chauncy Manor; he tells her of my lady's commands on the previous night, and then shows her his green-houses and hot-houses with great pride. He gathers her some flowers --some magnificent roses amongst the restand then she takes her leave, as it is time she should return. The old man likes her bright grey eyes and kindly voice, God blesses her in his heart, wishes her patience to endure, and finds, soon after, an opportunity for proceeding to the village, to announce to the landlord and others his opinion, "that better days are coming to the old place."

Precisely as the belfry clock strikes eight, Janet enters Lady Chauncy's room, adjacent to her bed-chamber. The old gentlewoman's demi toilette is complete; but her manner is even more frigid and haughty than the night before. Without appearing to heed it, Janet inquires after her health, and then reads prayers better than even on the previous night, for her timidity is less.

I like your reading vastly," says Lady Chauncy, when prayers are at an end-and

her manner softening as she speaks; "it is a great accomplishment in one so young, and an acquisition to me. Now go to breakfast with the housekeeper, and at nine o'clock attend mine."

The breakfast in the housekeeper's room is a particularly excellent one-for Tidd and Tippins themselves partake of it; but the housekeeper's humor is a very bad one. This increases in viciousness when her questions and counter-questions as to what my lady said and did, elicit so little in way of reply; and the fact is set down to cunning and duplicity.

Lady Chauncy's morning meal is, as we have said, served with much formality and state. Enough is set forth to feast twentyand two footmen and the butler attend it. Learning from the latter my lady's habits, and-finding that, most punctual in all her proceedings, Lady Chauncy likes to find the smallest item of her breakfast ready-Janet carves and chops a modicum of meat, dresses an egg, denudes the bread and butter of crust, and slices it into slips; and then, there being a minute or so to spare ere the clock strikes nine, it suddenly occurs to her to fetch some of the bounteous roses she has deposited in the water-jug up stairs, and put them on the table near my lady's cup.

This

is done just to the moment she arrives. She seems to take a purposed note of everything, though she says but little; receiving, as it would seem, these attentions as a matter of course. But her pleasure that her breakfasttable has been beautified and perfumed, is presently notified, by her saying—

"I shall like to see flowers each morning at my breakfast-table; and in my sitting-room as well."

After a slow walk up and down the terrace, Janet and her new mistress return, and go together into a noble sitting-room, in which a very large frame of worsted-work is a conspicuous object. For twenty years, Lady Chauncy has been wasting her days over this fabrication of a carpet, which is now to be handed over for the larger part of each morning to Janet, who will have to form bud and flower under her mistress's supervision. But, previously to beginning, letters have to be read and written. The old butler at this juncture bringing in the letter-bag, Lady Chauncy takes her seat in a high-backed chair behind the frame, and, with a small table before her, covered with work and papers, awaits Janet's duty of reading the letters.

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Look first for a letter from my nephew,