which threatened a persecution from unwholesome
recollections.

It was ominous to Lady Humphrey to see
Hester affect no joy at their meeting; to see her
take a pale grave stand at her new friend's right
elbow; to feel the confidence which already
existed between these two, the conviction that
her own late efforts to bind Hester to herself
had failed, while that a stranger had
acccomplished in one night and a day what she could
not effect through all the years that had changed
a babe into a woman.

And Lady Humphrey was now in a difficulty.
She wished to appear anxious to take Hester back
into her arms, and yet she hoped that the nun
might yet assist her in getting the girl
transported into Ireland. She must let this daughter
of Glenluce see the uneasiness of her kind
heart; how she did long to keep the girl with
her, be a mother to her, yet found herself
disabled by circumstances from indulging this
fond desire of her affection. It was impossible
to do this while Hester was standing by so
quiet and so resolute; so wickedly forgetful, it
would appear, of all the gratitude and enthusiasm
that was due from her to this tender benefactress
of her youth. But Lady Humphrey was
not to be daunted by a trifle.

"I must ask you, my love," she said, "to allow
me to have a few words with this dear lady in
private. You look tired, my Hester, after your
raking and your fright. Go and rest, my dear
pet! You need not weary yourself with attending
to a tiresome conversation."

"To the garden," said the Mother Augustine;
and Hester sat under a sunny wall with ripe
plums about her ears, and saw the sun set
in a fierce glare behind the city spires and
chimneys, and heard all the clocks, from towers
and churches, dropping down their music or
their clangour, many times round and round,
before Lady Humphrey's lean horses took
their way out of Blank-square, and the Mother
Augustine might be seen coming thoughtfully
along between the lavender and the rose bushes
casting about her glances, looking for some
one.

But the conversation in the parlour had gone
on somewhat in this way.

"You may have heard my name mentioned
before, dear madam," began Lady Humphrey,
cautiously, fully alive to the importance of
being sure of the ground she trod, before
venturing to take an excursion of any length into
ways where she had any cause to doubt the
foundations under her feet. Had the Mother
Augustine said "no," she was prepared to back
from her suggestion with some graceful apology.
But the nun, not having a taste for the art of
dissembling, gave her a knowledge of her position
on the instant.

"Yes," she said, readily, "I have heard your
name before, Lady Humphrey.  My brother
has mentioned it to me. And I understand,
moreover, that you had some acquaintance with
our family many years ago."

"It is true,'" said Lady Humphrey,
pensively. "Ah! how pleasant it is after years
have passed away to find the memories of one's
youth still shared by friends, even if—as, alas!
has been my case—those friends have been
estranged from us. I knew your father and
your mother, when they and I were boy and
girls. I loved them dearly, as a sister, and I
received much kindness from their hands. But
I was a sadly wild girl in those days, rny dear
madam, and it was easy for evil tongues to do
me a mischief if they would. Unkindness and
interference divided us, and I fear much that
cruel stories, perhaps provoked by my
waywardness and foolishness, must have lingered
at Glenluce with the memory of my name.
But ah! how the world tames one, dear
madam!"

And Lady Humphrey cast her eyes upon the
backs of her nice gloves, and studied them with
a sorrowful little smile, as though she saw her
youthful follies mirrored in the shining kid,
and compassionated them out of the depths of
her mind, now grown so sage, of her heart, now
grown so sober.

The nun smiled in good faith and good
humour. She was willing to believe all she
could, through the charity of her desire.

"If all the world of the good were to be
judged by the hastiness of their youth, Lady
Humphrey," she said, "I fear there would be
but few to receive honour or praise. It is after
the battle that the victor is crowned. No fighting,
no laurels."

Lady Humphrey glanced furtively at the
mother's sweet, serious face, and was satisfied
that her story had been fully known, that her
apology had been received. She sighed, and
resumed.

"Ah, yes! there is fighting needed, as you
say, and it costs care and anxiety to the friends
of youth before the training can be happily
accomplished. I was even wilder, I believe, and
more difficult to manage than that dear girl
who has just left the room. And it is about
her I would take your counsel, dear
madam, knowing your charitable interest in
all good works and honest cares. You see me
with this poor girl. She is an orphan, and has
depended on me for food, and clothing, and
protection, since she could speak. I have
educated her well, and yet of late I have found it
necessary that she should be taught some
means of supporting herself. I had wished, it
is true, to make her independent of such need,
but that is impossible. I cannot keep her as a
daughter under my own roof, and this displeases
her. Her tastes, alas! are beyond her station,
and I tremble to think of the dangers which
surround her in this great city. She is wild, I
will own to you, and frets at my control. I
fear she is not grateful. I fear she is inclined
to be rebellious and a little vindictive. But,
ah! dear madam! I need not tell you, who
must know it so well, that we should not do
good in this world through a seeking for gratitude.
She is not a bad girl, I believe, only, as
I have said, a little wilful and wild. You have