face bowed down in the hands. This was
Sylvia; but the picture presented was so like
the vision of my mother, that had shocked me
so sorely some mouths ago, that a little cry
broke from my lips. The first motion of her
hand of course dispelled the illusion, but my
superstitious fancy associated thenceforth a feeling
of dread with my first glimpse of Sylvia
Ashenhurst.

A blithe laugh answered my scream. "Did
I frighten you," she said, "sitting at your fireside
like a ghost?" She was quite at home at
once. I knew that she was a good many
years older than me—four or five at least—but
I was not prepared for the motherly manner
which she assumed towards me from the first.
Her sweet petting way was very graleful to
me, who never had had a mother nor a sister.

"Pretty, pretty Mattie!" said she, passing
her soft slim hand round my cheek. "Luke
told me you were small and plain, but that is
two years ago. One does not see such bright
eyes and wanton curls in London. You are of
a piece with the delicious whiteness and lavender
scent of your room, a perfect incarnation of the
fresh pure country air."

I drank this sweet praise, and received her
warm kiss with delight, proud of winning
admiration from any one so lovely as Sylvia herself.
But when I had time to think, I found my head
spinning with wonder. I had not known that
Sylvia and Luke had ever met, yet she spoke
of him familiarly by his Christian name, and two
years ago he had spoken to her about me. And
I remembered slowly, when I was free of the
enchantment of her presence, that she was not
the sort of Sylvia I had looked to see at all.
From what I knew of her story, I had expected
some one drooping and sad, who would require
to be cheered and cherished. I still wore my
black gown for my brother, and the soberness
of spirit which I had put on with it I had
never quite shaken off. But Sylvia looked and
spoke as if the path from her cradle had been
one track of sunshine. I felt some indignation
at her brightness, till I saw her again.

She was sitting in the parlour window with
her back to the sun when Luke came in to
breakfast the next morning. She was dressed in
a thick white wrapper girdled with blue, and in
fun had hung some ripe cherries pendent from
her brooch. The sun fell on the golden ball of
hair on the crown of her head, and strayed
round with loving touches to the light ripples
on her forehead. There was a luxurious grace
about all the outlines of her fair soft face and
splendid figure, and much picturesque feeling
in her attitude. She fascinated me with every
look and word. My father surveyed her over
the edge of his morning paper, and I knew that,
it took him longer than usual to ascertain the
exact price of yarn from its columns, because
Sylvia was sitting there, so charming. I
fidgeted about the breakfast-table, keeping my
face to the door that I might see the meeting
between her and Luke. It puzzled me to think
that be should have known her all this time and
not have fallen in love with her instead of me.
But when Luke came in there was nothing for
jealous eyes to discern. There was a cool
polite greeting, after which Sylvia sparkled the
whole of breakfast-time. I never had seen my
father so amused before, but Luke was almost
grim. Why, I kept, wondering, had he never
mentioned her name to me

The whole household was the better of Sylvia's
coming. My father, who did not often take
much heed of women, was amused in spite of
himself by her liveliness, which was never noisy
or obtrusive, but had a knack of coming behind
dulness unawares, and tripping up its heels, to
the delight of every one. The servants, the
farm-labourers, even the dogs and cows, liked
her; for her petting touch mesmerised the
animals as much as her words and smiles did
human beings. For me, she amused and
bewitched me from morning till night. I thought
the sun shone on the Mill-house as it had never
shone before. Only Elspie held aloof from her,
and eyed her with distrust.

"Keep a sharp eye on Luke, Mattie," said
my old nurse, "for it's my mind if himself were
far awa frae the Mill-house yon yellow-haired
lassie wouldna tak' the trouble to set the house
agee as she's doin'!"

No one else could have ventured to speak to
me so, but Elspie had dried my tears too often
not to know that she might say what she
pleased. I could not see with her eyes, however.
Indeed, I thought Luke seemed to have,
conceived an uncomfortable dislike to Sylvia,
and I more than suspected that she saw it. I
chid him for it one day. My intercourse with
him had been so slight since Sylvia's coming,
that I had to make an opportunity, by taking
my hat one morning, and forcing my escort
upon him as far towards the mill as the wooden
bridge.

"You might try to be kinder," I said, "for
Dick's sake!"

"For Dick's sake!" he echoed, bitterly. "I
wonder if she remembers whether he had red
hair or black."

I was surprised at this burst, for there had
never been much friendship between Luke and
my brother.

"In Dick's time," he went on, "she could
speak to one without a grimace. Now I am
sickened by her perpetual frivolity."

"You knew her in Dick's time, then?" I
asked, quietly.

"Did she never tell you so?" he asked in
surprise.

I said "No, she had never told me anything
concerning herself;" which was true. He
coloured up and was silent. I had never seen
him guilty of a blush before.

"I used to go with Dick to visit her when I
happened to be in London doing commissions
for your father," he said, presently. "That was
when I was a penniless devil, just apprenticed
to the mill, whom Miss Ashenhurst does not
condescend to remember."

"She remembers," I said, "for she