through the room, and Ursula's bowed head was raised in adoration to the dear LORD Who had still left her the power of praising Him. And so was her first year of orphanhood ushered in.

Parents and elder children were assembled in the hall in the early dawn, when Ursula stole down stairs. The grey morning was only just bursting into brightness, and she scarcely expected to see any one.

But since her confirmation, a few months ago, she had been permitted to join in the great feast of Christians, and thought to go alone to the church this morning to meet her LORD, and there receive comfort. She found, however, that this would be the true Communion of Saints. A few quiet words of greeting passed, and then with Ursula leaning on Everard's arm the whole party passed on into the beautiful little church, which was so near as almost to join the grounds of the Cedars.

They passed up the solemn aisle, and knelt in fervent prayer and adoration. The few worshippers were stilled in holy awe as in softest tones the organ played, and a few clear rich voices sang the words of that beautiful hymn :

"Draw nigh and take the body of our LORD." Ursula had never before felt how great and tangible is the strength to be obtained by a true partaker of the heavenly feast. She arose from her knees calm and refreshed, and orphan as she was, she knew that there was still One Who loved her, and would watch over her even in her most lonely hours, and Who had even now filled her soul with an unspeakable rapture too deep for words, yet making her know that "glad silence," which a devout soul, healed from a sore wound, understands so well.

The holiday weeks at the Cedars were passing rapidly, and Ursula was still an inmate there. The girls were talking of the return of their governess, and the commencement of lessons; and the boys, of the opening of the grammar-school in the neighbouring town where they were being educated. Everard the eldest, now nearly nineteen, had begun to absent himself for some hours in the day; and when he appeared again among the family, it was usually with a flushed face and very rough hair, or the blue velvet cap put on either at the back of his head, or very much on one side. Ethel, his pet sister and great friend, used often to be closeted with him at these busy times; and the examination for the scholarship, which was hanging over her

brother, seemed to have quite as anxious an importance for her, as for him.

They ran down stairs together one day chasing each other, and chaffing" in the wildest manner, as a safety-valve after two or three hours of close study together in Everard's " den," as he called his little room where there was just room for the brother and sister to sit down, and even then it was impossible to open the door.

"Now, Everard, you must learn to be a little dignified, and not make such a frightful noise all over the house; why when you have got the scholarship, we shall all have to respect you; and I am sure that'll be hard work if you don't mend your manners," laughed Ethel.

When, my dear child; but there's long odds against my ever doing so, unless the old fogies of examiners are sharp enough to see a fellow's good points quite irrespective of his learning, perhaps good looks may have an effect on them-what do you say to going in like this, Ethel ?" and Everard pulled the blue cap nearly over his left ear, and put on an absurd expression of countenance, while seizing his sister round the waist, he waltzed round a couple of turns, and then stopped suddenly.

Their faces expressed so much astonishment at what they saw, that they had not time to laugh. But the person who stood before them, appeared overpowered by indignation as much as surprise. She was a tall gaunt woman, between fifty and sixty, very yellow and wrinkled, but scrupulously neat. Her thin grey hair was parted on her forehead, and a finely plaited cap-border showed under her close black bonnet. A very scanty black silk dress, and a black and white plaid shawl pinned tightly across the chest, completed her attire. She wore black kid gloves-the fingers being about an inch longer than required, and stretching out quite flat beyond her fingers.

Nothing can describe the austerity with which this person regarded Ethel and Everard, as they were ignorantly performing their cherished trois temps in broad daylight, before her very face. She drew her thin skirts closer to her, and stretched her gaunt figure higher and higher, till she seemed, as Ethel said afterwards, "nearly to touch the ceiling." "Who ever can that old hag be?" muttered Everard, as they made their way awkwardly enough into the dining-room.

There was evidently something extraordinary going on, for Everard's comical grimace of horror, pointing at the door he had just closed, was stopped by a look from his father, who at this unusual hour of his

busy day was at home. He and the mother and Ursula were standing together, and the doctor's protecting arm was round the girl, while the mother's kind look dwelt upon her with more than her usual tenderness.

Ursula was saying,

“I am sure you are judging for the best, and will settle it all for me better than I can; but I seem to have been so happy here, so much happier than I ever thought I should be, that it is very hard to leave you all."

My dear child," said Dr. Mc Leod, "it is solely because we believe your mother would have wished it, that we decide that you ought to go to your aunts. Otherwise, we earnestly desire to keep you with us always. But if we send back this maid without you, you will have offended them for life."

"Yes, I see it all. I know I ought to be thankful to go, as indeed I am thankful to you for all your love and kindness to me for so long, dear Mr. and Mrs. Mc Leod."

Ethel had come forward, and taken her friend's hand, and Everard too now was looking black and grave, understanding everything at

once.

"I must go and see that this Mrs. Dorothy Princely is looked after, I suppose," said Mrs. Mc Leod, "she seems a fearfully starched personage."

“Awful,” said Everard, with emphasis, "but I have a lifelong satisfaction in thinking that Ethel and I nearly frightened her to death." Ursula looked up with a sad smile.

"You will remember and send me a telegram, Everard, when you get the scholarship, won't you

66

Any amount, Ursula ; but examination, I hope and trust.

you will be home again long before the

I shall be sure to fail if I haven't you to cheer me with your beautiful singing, when I am especially hard up for brains."

"I shall be always thinking of you, you may be sure. I wish Ethel could go up with you: you two together would be sure to win."

"I wish to goodness she could,-but, Ursula, it is horrid to think of you so far away, and left to the tender mercies of such an old witch as that," pointing with his thumb to the door.

Ethel

him gave

(6
a nudge."

I dare say I shall be all right after a bit," said Ursula, “but you

know it is hard lines,' as you would say, to any one to go away from the Cedars."

But she had to go away, and Everard never forgot the cold, grey eyes of Mrs. Dorothy Princely, or the soft, tearful, blue ones of poor little Ursula, as they steamed away, seated opposite each other in a first-class carriage, after bidding farewell to the Cedars.

CHAPTER III.

THE small station at which Ursula Stanhope and her companion alighted looked dreary enough in the chill winter's morning. The long night journey had been dull and sorrowful, and there was a mixture of dread in Ursula's contemplation of her companion. Mrs. Dorothy's watchful, cold eyes never seemed to sleep or to swerve from their watch. They were constantly fixed on the young girl, and if sometimes sad remembrance brought sudden tears to her eyes, the austere expression instantly fixed itself on the maid's hard features, and a look almost of menace came into them.

Once Ursula had made some inquiry with regard to her unknown aunts. Mrs. Dorothy replied, with much drawing up and bridling, that "the Misses Henrietta and Maria were very different in every respect from the parties with whom Miss Stanhope had been residing, -she should hope so."

Ursula had pride of her own, and with a flushed cheek replied, that she did not think servants capable of judging of her friends.

Mrs. Dorothy never forgot or forgave this speech: it was perhaps an unwise one, but Ursula was not yet alive to the necessity of propitiating • a powerful friend or foe.

A very old-fashioned family coach met the travellers at the station, with an equally old-fashioned coachman and footman. They had evidently been part and parcel of the establishment for a generation, and were as taciturn almost as automatons. The old horses too were so fat that they never went beyond a very slow jogtrot, so that Ursula was quite worn out and dispirited when the six miles of bare country were passed over and the manor came in sight. It was built of grey stone blackened by age, and was a massive structure. Everything around was neat and prim as it was possible to be: but there appeared to Ursula to be a perfect absence of life. Everything was cold, and formal, and dreary,—an unmeet home for one so young and friendless.

More old-fashioned servants stood at the door, and within the hall, and stiffly and noiselessly they ushered the timid young girl into the large drawing-room where sat the two much dreaded aunts.

They were at the first glance very much alike,—but on closer inspection Miss Henrietta, the eldest, had the larger features, stronger lines, and also, be it confessed, not a few hairs growing round the mouth and chin. Miss Maria was smaller and paler, and had a rather meek expression of countenance. They were dressed exactly alike, in stiff black silk dresses, white net kerchiefs folded over the chest, and ruffs round the neck exquisitely plaited. Little thin grey curls put back with tortoiseshell sidecombs, and screwed up in a little knot behind; and a wonderful erection on the head, covered with ribbons, and finished up with lappets of old point-lace of priceless value.

They both rose as the door was opened, and the old butler announced in a shaky voice, but with much pomposity, "Miss Stanhope."

"Come hither, Miss Stanhope," said the eldest of the two old ladies, advancing one step towards poor trembling Ursula, and fixing a piercing gaze upon her.

Miss Maria also advanced a step, but her face was more bent on seeing her sister's course of action than in taking any individual interest in her young relative.

Ursula came up to the sisters and put out her hand. It was coldly taken by Miss Henrietta, who also bent down and just touched the poor child's glowing cheek with her cold thin lips. Miss Maria followed suit and actually did give a pretence of a salute to Ursula, drawing up however again quickly, for fear she might have been too demonstrative in her welcome.

"I suppose you are fatigued with your journey, and would wish to retire and make some change in your dress," said Miss Henrietta, eyeing everything about Ursula keenly, adding to her sister, “Very expensive mourning, Maria, I am surprised at it."

"Yes, Henrietta, I am surprised," said the younger sister, also eyeing Ursula.

'Will you be so good as to ring the bell, Maria ?"

"Yes, Henrietta," and the old lady bustled with a curious mixture of activity and primness across the room and rang.

"Send Mrs. Dorothy here if she is not engaged," said Henrietta to the old butler.