Loveday did her ironing in the parlour. The long deal table was covered with linen, a fire was in the grate, and irons stood around it becoming heated.

Rose, I am ironing my brother's collars and shirt-fronts. Will you goffer these frills for me?'

'My dear Loveday!' exclaimed Rose, 'I wish with all my heart I could; but I never did anything useful in all my life, except wool-work.'

'And that is very useful. I wish I had time to do some.'

Rose's heart fluttered and her eyes danced. 'Loveday, you darling! Will you? Oh, don't say me nay!'

'How can I till I know what you want?' said the other, laughing.

'I have begun a mat-that is, the border for a mat to go before the fire. It is very pretty; the ground olive green with a broad scroll over it of folded ribbon, shaded from red to white. I began it three years ago, and I do a little from time to time. Now I will attack it like a dragon if you will accept it from me and use it for your parlour mat when you fit up this room. Why have you not furnished it?'

'We are waiting for our ship to come in,' answered Loveday, ' and Nantsillan Cove is so dangerous with reefs that our ship has not yet ventured in.'

'But,' began Rose, looking round her with wonder, 'why does not your servant do this?'

'Because our servant is a little girl of twelve, and she would probably spoil the things.'

'Does she cook your dinners and make the bread?'

'No; I am cook and baker.'

'She cleans the rooms and makes the beds?'

'No; I am housemaid.'

'And the garden? Who attends to that?'

'I am gardener.'

But Mr. Penhalligan's horse? Surely you are not groom also?'

'No, that I am not; my brother is his own groom.'

This is very strange to me. And your dresses? And the linen? Are you also dressmaker and scouring maid?' 'Yes, I am.'

'Then,' said Rose, 'I am a very useless creature in the world.

I cannot understand you.

You work like a common woman, and

yet you look always like a lady.'

'Am I not a lady?' asked Loveday, with a quiet smile. Rose in reply threw her arms round her and kissed her again. 'How good!-how very good you are!' she said with a gush of love and enthusiasm. I wish-Oh! I wish I were like you!'

Loveday shook her head and went on with the ironing whilst she talked, glad, perhaps, to be able to hide her face by bending over her work.

'No, dear, I am not good. I have committed grave faults; I have done things both foolish and wrong, for which I shall grieve all my days, the shadow of which will always hang over me. I have had more experience of life than you, that is all, and I am oldened by it beyond my years.'

head pass the window.

'There is Gerans!' interrupted Rose, starting, as she saw his I thought he would come. I suppose I will charge him with it.' entreated Loveday, laying aside her work and going up to her. You will wound him-that will be the result; and is that a result to be desired?'

his father has sent him. 'Prithee do not,'

'He should come unprompted.'

'Perhaps he has; possibly not. Does it matter? He wanted to leave, and Mr. Gaverock suggested that he should. Two hearts felt kindly towards you instead of one. You should be pleased to have it so. Now, one word with you before we go into the next room to them.' Loveday's face became distressed, and her hand clasped Rose's arm nervously. Do not play tricks with my brother. I know you mean no harm, but Dennis is unable to bear trifling. He takes everything seriously, too seriously. You remember the fable of the frogs and the boys who threw stones at them. "What is fun to you," said the frogs, "is death to us.'

Rose's tell-tale mouth twitched, the lips pouted, but the corners went down; she was half disposed to defiance, half to cry.

"We will detain both you and Mr. Gerans,' said Loveday, 'and have tea; then Dennis and I will do our best to amuse you with music.'

'Oh, that will be prime!' exclaimed Rose, laughing. But how about the ironing? Is Mr. Penhalligan to go limp-collared to-morrow because we are here?'

'Leave that to me. We shall have a pleasant evening.'

CHAPTER XIII.

A QUIET EVENING.

LOVEDAY went out of the parlour at once to meet and welcome Gerans, and invite him in to a dish of tea. You will excuse me,' she said smiling, if I run away for a few minutes and put off my work-a-day for my holiday gown. It is a holiday indeed for us to entertain friends. Dennis, make up the fire and draw the curtains. Mr. Gerans, there is one corner of the hearth for you, and there is a corner also for Rose, and to her I entrust the bellows.'

Gerans winced at the reference to the bellows, and looked at Loveday. But he remembered that she could not have heard his father's remark, and his colour, which had flashed to his temples, disappeared again.

The little maid of twelve appeared, and laid the cloth, standing on tiptoe and stretching over the table to smooth out the creases. By the time it was laid evenly, Loveday reappeared in a cloth gown, and helped the child to arrange the table. A pretty Derby tea service appeared, inherited by Loveday from her mother, a rabbit pie, cold, and preserves of whortleberry, and blackberry, and strawberry, of her own making. Then ensued a pause of a quarter of an hour, during which the little maid ran to the nearest farm for cream and butter.

Presently the tea-kettle came in, and was given a final heating on the hall fire, to ensure that the water was really on the boil when poured upon the Chinese leaves. The curtains were drawn, the candles lighted, a faggot of dry wood thrown on the fire, and the little party drew to the table.

Then Rose uttered an exclamation of delight. On her plate lay a little bunch of purple violets. Oh, Loveday! how sweet the flowers are! and how sweet of you to give me them!'

Our violets bloom here all the year round, the glen is so warm and looe (sheltered).

'Like the pretty thoughts and fragrant virtues of your dear heart,' said Rose eagerly.

'The violets of Nantsillan will not compare with the rose of Towan,' said Dennis Penhalligan.

Rose tossed her head impatiently. Spare me your formal

compliments,' she said; mine was a pretty speech that sprang spontaneous from my heart, and yours is laboured and artificial.'

Rose was, at first, less exuberant in her spirits than usual. What Loveday had said to her in the parlour affected her, but only for a while. She was too buoyant to be long depressed, and by the time tea was over she had regained complete elasticity.

Dennis shook off some of his gloom, and endeavoured to be cheerful. He was very pleased to have Rose at his table, yet at the same time he was ashamed of the bareness of his room, its - white walls, its common furniture. He could never dispel the sense of his poverty. He was proud, perhaps vain, not of his appearance, but of his abilities, and the sense of his being unworthily placed and hardly treated never left him. He was ashamed of his table, because the cloth was coarse, of the forks because they were of steel with black handles, of the preserves because they were of ordinary wild fruit. His heart was so cankered with discontent, that he could not see and rejoice over the comforts and cleanliness that were his, provided by the care of his sister. He never saw what advantages he had, but he was keen-sighted over the deficiencies. There is no more dangerous mood than one that is dissatisfied, none more tormenting than that which is unthankful. Loveday had a daily struggle with him to bring him to a better mind, but was unsuccessful.

'Dennis,' she said to him, 'the world is a mirror which reflects our humours-laugh to it, and it laughs back to you; scowl at it, and it returns your defiance. It will answer you as you address it, like an echo, just a note lower.'

Dennis asked Rose during tea if she were fond of music. 'Music!' she answered, clapping her hands. Oh, I love it! I love nothing better.'

His dark face lightened as she said this. They had a passion in common.

'Then,' said he, 'I will play you a sonata of Beethoven's; that in C flat, Opus 3. It is my favourite; of others, I have to ask what they mean, but this one tells its own tale. I can play this better than another, not because I have practised it oftener, but because I can speak it through my fingers. Every note expresses a thought of my heart. As I interpret this sonata, it is the utterance of titanic defiance by one wounded in spirit; like a tamed eagle that longs to soar, but cannot, it beats its wings in frenzy and scorn, and gnaws its own heart out, because condemned

to lie on earth when its proper sphere is above the clouds. It feels itself cast down and banned by a dark and inexorable power above which denies it light and air. In the maestoso you hear the agony of the soul; in the allegro, its defiance. There is a battle in which the restive spirit submits, and then revolts, cries out in fury against the iron fate which holds it down, and then throws itself sullenly with face to earth, in sob and moan. Here and there bright and melodious passages flash, like summer lightning, or pass as fragrant airs, but they do not lessen the darkness nor alleviate the pain.'

'Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Penhalligan, that all this is contained in a few pages of music?'

'You shall judge for yourself. You have heard my "Argument," now listen to the canto.'

He seated himself at the piano, and began to play. In a moment his soul was caught by the music, and he was carried away from his surroundings, as Elijah was caught and borne upwards in the chariot of fire. After a while, as he was playing, as perhaps he had never played before, his nerves excited by the presence of Rose, he became dimly conscious of something indistinct and irritating, a something that drew him down from his heights, and brought him into the vulgar presence of unworthy surroundings. By degrees he became aware what it was that marred his pleasure— it was a conversation carried on in a low tone in the room. He thought at first that the tiresome little maid was clearing away the tea things, and asking her mistress instructions; but when he paused to turn a leaf he heard Rose asking Gerans, But, really, cousin, what is a Goose Fair?'

He tried to play on, but his interest in the music was gone. Loveday had watched his face, had seen his emotions throughout the performance quiver in his face, and now she read in it disappointment and anger. She went close to his side and said, 'Dennis, this is caviar to her; play something lighter, the dance music in Lord Westmoreland's "Bajazet."

Without answering, he allowed his fingers rapidly to glide into the frivolous, worthless music of the noble dilettante.

The talking ceased at once, and Rose's little feet beat the dance time on the slate floor.

Presently Dennis ceased.

Then Rose clapped her hands. 'Thank you so much, Mr. Penhalligan. I have enjoyed myself greatly. But really, I did not think Beethoven could have written