frequent than ever—and it is vexatious to sit
down to dinner with fringe around one's shoulders,
when one knows it is out of date, and one
ought to have puffings, or falls of lace. I have
talked upon the subject to your aunt Margaret
Hazeldean, but it is of no use asking her advice
upon such matters. She only laughs in a
provoking way, and says the dressmaker in the
village—the same who makes stuff gowns and
petticoats for the farmer's wives—is quite
good enough for her. Poor Madge has been
the only person to sympathise with me till
lately—and you know I never like to take an
important step without support—but even she
is so very odd, has so many fantastic ideas about
embroideries and furbelows that we never could
come to agree in our desires on the subject.
But now that our dear Janet is with us—and
likely, I trust, to remain with us for life—I
think it is high time I set to work to supply
this deficiency in our domestic resources. The
dear girl has such exquisite taste, is so fastidious
about everything she will wear—she is
quite after my own heart in this; as indeed I
may say in everything else. And apropos——"

But the mother went no further. She joined
her hands above her desk, and leaned her brow
upon them thoughtfully.

"I wonder how it would do," she said, softly
to herself. "I wonder if they would be tender
and kind to her, if I sent them a stray lamb to
be folded at Glenluce!"

After pondering thus a little time longer, she
drew forth a sheet of paper, with a sudden
impulse, and wrote a letter of consultation to
that very Aunt Margaret who could laugh so
provokingly over the trouble of wrinkles in a
dress, and who was simple enough to wear gowns
made by homely village hands.

A letter about a Red Ridinghood who was
flying from a wolf, about a young spirit that
had been tried, a young heart that had known
the danger of growing embittered, a young
will that was resolved to do work. She said:
"The case is an exceptional one. The girl
would do her part, I believe, but I should in
all respects require that she should be treated
like a lady." The pith of the letter was, "Think,
observe, question, and let me have your advice;
by which I shall act, if that be possible."

And so it happened, that on an evening soon
after this, in a far distant house near the village
of Glenluce, a face that was soon to shine
on Hester's path, a bright dark face full of
strength and sweetness, was bending over this
letter with interested attention; considering the
matter of its contents—which was the fate of
Hester—wisely, sympathisingly, with all the
earnestness and generous zeal of a strong
fervent heart.

CHAPTER XII. HESTER'S CHARACTER DESCRIBED.

LADY HUMPHREY'S carriage, rather dingy,
though with a look important, was seen stopping,
soon after this, before that black ancient
archway in Blank Square.

Never in her life, perhaps, had this lady
looked so beaming, so benevolent, so perfectly
convinced of and satisfied with the generosity
of the world, as in that hour which saw her
present herself in the quiet reception room of
the convent, to look after her charming Hester,
and to thank that dear courteous abbess for
her hospitality to the poor child.

"Ah, good madam!" she said to the Mother
Augustine, while shaking her finger playfully
at Hester, "how well it is for the world that
such charity as yours is to be met with
occasionally! When naughty girls get astray from
their chaperones at balls, they do not deserve
to be rewarded with such a treat as being
taken into such a delightful home as this,
being entertained by such a charming person
as you. How shall I ever thank you enough?
And your noble brother. You must please
make my acknowledgments to Sir Archie
Munro. I have the pleasure of knowing him
slightly, through my son."

Now, behind Lady Humphrey's smiles there
lurked a puzzle in her mind. Did this sister of
Sir Archie, this daughter of Sir Archie's
mother, recognise in her, Lady Humphrey, that
Judith Blake whose young days were remembered
amongst the elders of her home, who had
truly not been approved in the days that were
so remembered? If not, it would be well;
but if luck were so far against her, then it
would now be her part to remove, by appearing
in a new character, whatever hostile or
doubtful impressions might have laid their
mark upon the mind of this good abbess.

"Such enthusiasts are apt to indulge charitable
opinions," she reflected, and she set about
winning the full faith of this new ally; for an
ally in some shape or other Lady Humphrey
had resolved that she must prove. She had
once known an abbess before, but she was a
homely old woman, with the poor of a country
district under her wing—as homely as a hen
among her chickens. But a young abbess like
this must be of the kind known in poems;
where she is usually found sitting with her
back to a mediæval church window, with an
unfortunate love story in the background of her
life, a crushed heart ever open to the public
inspection, and with an unhesitating belief in the
virtue and misfortunes of all who may draw
near to hear the story of her sorrows and see
her praying by moonlight.

"It should be easy to manage her," thought
Lady Humphrey, but looked in vain for the
seraphic although heartbroken smile, the
lackadaisical self-conscious drooping of the eyelids;
listened fruitlessly for the half-smothered, tale-
telling, egotistical sigh. This was no etherealised
victim of romance whom Lady Humphrey
had to deal with; and indeed the graceful young
woman, in her black garb, was so very much, in
very honesty, like the creature she had been
born to be, to wit, the good guileless daughter
of one—of two—whom Lady Humphrey could
remember, that, albeit her ladyship held a stout
heart within her body, she had some twitches at
her conscience, some pains about her memory,