to him, and endeavoured to alarm me by
recounting some of the difficulties of the
way; but I was resolute.

From the time when I could first read I
had always been fond of books, as was but
natural, considering my inability to join in
any of the amusements of my age; and,
living thus in such a quiet, self-sustaining
way, my new studies seemed but a pleasant
variation of my usual readings.

CHAPTER THE SECOND.

One evening in spring, as I was busily
employed in watering my flowers, my grandmother
came into the garden, leading by the
hand a girl apparently about a year younger
than myself.

"Here's a playfellow for you, Ralph," she
said. "It's little Salome Graham, Mrs.
Graham's grand-daughter. She's only here
for a fortnight—so you must make the most
of it together."

Mrs. Graham was one of the old widows,
and I had frequently heard her speak of her
little Salome. She was a thin, shy-looking
girl, not at all pretty—at least I thought so
then. Her pale face, somewhat sunken about
the cheeks, and the dark circles under her
eyes, told a tale of ill-health, or sorrow;
perhaps of both. Her countenance was wanting
in that expression of openness, and
joyous frankness, so attractive in youth. It
was too quiet, impassive, and self-restrained
for that of a child; and seemed as if
she had, even at that early age, been taught
to repress all emotions either of joy, or
sorrow, to conceal every child-like
impulse. Her long, black hair was demurely
plaited away, without either wave or curl,
under a thick silk net. She had on a
somewhat faded green silk frock; over which
she wore a black silk apron of quite an
old-fashioned womanly pattern; the pockets
stuffed with cotton-balls, scissors, and other
industrial aids. She carried Mrs. Graham's
kitten in her long, thin arms, and sat down
on the grass without speaking, to caress
it more at her ease; while my grandmother
placed herself with her knitting
on a bench close by. I was so confused
by this unexpected apparition, that I
forgot to remove my can from the plant I
was watering till the soil round it became
a complete puddle. She gave me one glance
with her dark, melancholy eyes, and then
bent them again shyly on the kitten. The
expression of those eyes troubled me more
than anything else. Melancholy they
certainly were; but so restless, so earnestly
searching, as though they were looking for some
unknown good, that I could not help
wondering in my simple way, what it was they
had lost, and why they should burn with
such intelligence, while the rest of her
countenance was so devoid of vivacity.

I went on for some time, mechanically
watering my flowers, without daring to say
a word. When I looked at her again, she
was bending over a bunch of lilies near
which she sat; peering into their delicate
bells, and gently lifting up their drooping
heads.

"Are you fond of flowers?" at length I
ventured to ask.

"Very!" she replied, with an indrawing
of her breath, like a half sigh. "I see them
so seldom."

"Where, then, do you live?" I asked.

"In London," she answered.

"In that grand and magnificent place! How
I should like to live there!"

"Yes, but there are no flowers," she replied.
"At least, I never have any, though they tell
me there are plenty to be bought in the
markets. But my aunt does not care for
flowers; and she won't let me have a bunch
in my bed-room, because, she says, it is not
healthy. And then there are no birds in
London; only the twittering sparrows, and a
few robins; and no hay-fields nor barns. O,
I do love the country so much!"

"But there must be plenty of flowers and
hayfields outside London," I urged.

"Yes, but I have no time to go and look
for them," she said. "I have always
plenty of sewing to do for aunt, and many
many tasks to learn; and besides, aunt won't
let me walk out alone; and she likes the
town,—O much better than the country!"

"Ah, then, if I were you, I should run away
into the country on Sundays, out of sight of
the big, smoky town, and ramble all day in
the woods and fields."

"On Sundays!" she exclaimed, as if
surprised and offended, and losing at once all
the animation that had begun to illumine
her countenance. "But on Sundays we go
to church in the mornings and evenings.
And in the afternoon I read the Bible to
aunt; or get a collect off by heart, while she
sleeps a little. And then, in the evening,
we always have tart for supper, and go to bed
early."

I went on watering my flowers in silence
for some time after this, fearing I had
offended her.

"How beautiful these lilies are!" she
said at length, in a low voice, as if speaking
to herself.

"There's thousands of wild ones for the
plucking, round Langley Farm," I said.

"And can we go and get some?"

"Ay; it's only two miles off. To-morrow's
our half-holiday; so we'll go, if you like, and
bring back as many as you can carry."

"O, that will be delightful!" she
exclaimed, joyfully. "But I must go and ask
grandma," she added, more quietly, "because
she might not be pleased, you know, if I
went without her permission."

She skipped off at once to ask, and quickly
returned, with a smile that plainly indicated
her application had been successful.

By this time it was nearly dark, and my