chafing some chilled fingers between her own
warm palms.

All this was very trying for Hester. If the
fever of her suspense had not made her almost
reckless, her resolution must have melted into
nothing at such treatment. But the thought
of the flying moments pressed her hard; and
the dread of returning to her work, it might be
to a solitary room, with the burthen of that
secret and that wonder still upon her, lent her
tongue a desperation that did the part of real
courage.

"I must not stay five minutes, Mrs. Hazeldean,``
said Hester, trying to answer two questions
at once. " And I should not have come
out on such a day if I had not been driven
out."

"My darling!" said Mrs. Hazeldean, alarmed;
"who has driven you out?"

"No person," said Hester. " Nothing except
my own distress of mind."

She had got her hands disentangled from
among her friend's soft fingers by this time, and
she had tied on her hat and stood ready for
flight. She knew that she was running a
terrible risk in speaking the words that were
waiting on her tongue. She might be misunderstood;
nothing else seemed so natural to expect
as that she should. She might offend, disgust,
the friend who had cherished her. So she stood
ready to fly from before this face that she loved,
if it so happened that dear face should grow dark
at her audacity.

"Distress of mind!" said Mrs. Hazeldean;
and as she spoke she guessed even more than
was the truth.

"I came here, Mrs. Hazeldean," said Hester,
"to ask you if you know what Sir Archie
means?"

Mrs. Hazeldean's eyes were on Hester's face,
and saw the face turn white with the effort
that had been made. Why had Archie been so
foolish? Mrs. Hazeldean's two hands went
suddenly forth, laid hold of the figure that stood
so aloof, ready for flight, and pulled it down
without ceremony against her knee.

"I cannot know what he has been doing,"
she said, " but I venture to say that he means
to do well."

"Mrs. Hazeldean!" said Hester, " I must
say something more. He—behaves strangely
to me. I dare not understand him. I came
to tell you this, though I thought that the
telling might have killed me."

"Hester," said Mrs. Hazeldean, after one
minute's pause, " I have not got any liberty to
interfere with Sir Archie's secrets, but I will
say so much as this— I have known him all my
life, and I believe that you may trust him."

Hester's face sank in her lap, and remained
there as if the girl had been annihilated. But
a few moments went by, and Hester's wits were
alive again.

"But, Mrs. Hazeldean," she began again,
desperately.

But Mrs. Hazeldean stopped her mouth with
a kiss. " I will not hear a word more," she
said, " You shall not distress yourself with
another syllable." And she was thinking what
was to be done about Hester. She must take
her from the castle, and get her under her own
wing. " But I am glad you came here, to-day,
and I am glad you spoke to me." She went
on: " So do not begin to fret lest you were
wrong. Now, you shall not go back this evening.
I will send them a message."

But Hester was on her feet.

"No, no, I am going," she said; and without
waiting to be staid, took her burning face
out of the house, and up the glen on the track
to the castle.

For Hester was not satisfied. She had not,
after all her hardy efforts, had the daring to say,
"But I have got orders concerning Miss
Golden's wedding trousseau." She must have
blundered very sadly in her speaking to Mrs.
Hazeldean; or Mrs. Hazeldean must have
made a great mistake. Why, it was only this
very morning that Lady Helen had consulted
her about the fashioning of a splendid bridal
dress. So Hester had told her secret; and
gained an extra heartache in exchange.

CHAPTER XXI. THE FRENCH ARE IN THE BAY.

SEWING is a kind of occupation for the hands
which leaves the brain very free to think.
More so almost than any other sort of work.
Spinning makes a noise, and writing engages the
mind, more or less. Sewing is silent,
monotonous, mechanical; once a device has been
shaped by the scissors, and the fingers know
the tricks of the device.

Sewing is a sort of secret handwriting,
peculiar to women. Many a strange history,
many a life's poem, has been traced in thread
by the needle, hemmed into sheets, darned
into stockings to be trodden under a thankless
foot, stitched into wreathings of flowers
and garlands. Every day these records are
written, but never read. Characters marked in
invisible ink will lie hidden in blank parchment,
unsuspected, for years, and at last the
breath of fire, like the touch of a wizard, will
call them to light, and deliver their message.
But no sage will ever translate the histories
traced by the needle, of patience, of heroism,
of passion, and anguish. How they are written
and stored, these poems! Every household
has its stores of such family archives. In
the linen chests they lie; on the shelves of deep
presses; in the drawers strewn with lavender.
In the wardrobe hung with dresses, in the
cupboard with mended hose; in the locked
drawer where the little trousseau is arranged,
smooth and orderly, of the baby who died; in
the trunks, packed between laughing and crying,
of the bride who will shortly go forth. If a
light were suddenly given to read these
hidden writings, what wild revelations, what
beautiful lessons, what outpourings of joy,
what majestic examples of endurance would
not startle the world, and make it blush for the
affectations it treasures in staring print!

Hester was making some little frills, and