it was found to harmonise with them very
pleasantly.

The whole family arrived together—Mr.
and Mrs. Chetwynde, Olivia, Clara, Fred,
Charley, and the four little ones. Nurse
Bradshaw met them at the door, and was
cheered to see her mistress walk in, head
erect, countenance clear, and step firm as
ever. Mr. Chetwynde looked flurried, and
the elder children eager and curious; but,
after a minute or so, a flatness fell upon them.
It was not worth while to act a laborious
part. They were all friends together. The
change was tremendous, and there was no
need to conceal from each other that they
were sensible of it. They looked in at the
open dining-room door, and then went slowly
up-stairs, tired and depressed; but uncomplaining.
Nobody said the steps were steep
or the rooms like closets, after stately old
Harringby, although they all thought so.
Indeed, the only remark anybody made was
on the strong bloom of the red geraniums
which Nurse Bradshaw had set in one of the
drawing-room windows.

"Tea is in the young ladies' sitting-room,"
Nurse said, as she followed her mistress; "it
is above all the racket, and next where they
are to sleep. It does not look so unlike home
as might be expected, and I hope they'll take
to it kindly."

"I'm sure they will, Nurse; they have
good heart for our reverses, bless them!"
replied Mrs. Chetwynde, cheerfully.

The two smallest children had already
taken an objection to the Irish housemaid,
who was trying to inveigle them from
mama's skirts. They set up a piping howl, until
Nurse Bradshaw stopped their mouths with
kisses and bore them off, first to tea and
sweet cake, and then stowed them safely for
the night in their respective cribs. When she
again sought her mistress; whom she found
with her husband and elder children in the
young ladies' room, the urn was hissing on
the tea-table, but no one was attending to it.

"Nurse, what do you think mama says?"
cried Miss Olivia, as the old servant entered;
"she says she fancies she has seen this room
before?"

"It must have been in a dream, or in some
previous state of existence, my dear;" said
Mr. Chetwynde, rallyingly.

"Most likely the old Harringby furniture
deceives your mama's eye, Miss Olivia," Nurse
suggested.

"The furniture has nothing to do with it,"
interposed Mrs. Chetwynde, meditatively, as
if some distant shadow of memory were
striving to take shape and substance in her
mind. She stood thinking and straining
after the idea that still eluded her grasp,
until Mr. Chetwynde bade her not let her
imagination run away with her, but to come
and make tea.

"You have told me fifty times that I have
no imagination, George, so that is all nonsense,"
she replied, still feeling after the
intangible wavering dimness that was
confusing her. "Besides, memory plays tricks
with us quite as strange as ever imagination does.
Psychologists say that, once an
impression received into the mind, it is
never effaced; it is hidden by intervening
events, or forgotten amongst their multitude;
but still exists. And do not some
speculatists define the great account to be each
man's and each woman's memory, revealing
all its secret records at the moment the soul
passes the threshold of the other world, that
it may stand self-condemned by the two
indestructible powers of memory and conscience?"

"An awful revelation that would be for
some of us; but it is a rather heterodox
notion, Charlotte. Besides," said her husband,
smiling, "the children are hungry."

Mrs. Chetwynde took the hint, and seated
herself at the table.

Nurse, who was filling the tea-pot from
the urn, remarked, as she did so, "I've known
you, Mrs. Chetwynde, ever since you were
four years old, and from that time till you
were married you never were in London.
I shouldn't think you could remember what
happened before."

Mrs. Chetwynde made no answer; but the
expression of her countenance attested that
neither probability nor improbability had
much weight with her, when she was
internally persuaded of the true foundation of
her own ideas; and, when they were all leaving
the room, after tea, she turned round,
and, glancing over it, as if to reassure herself
against the doubts of others, said: "Yes.
There is no mistake in my mind about it. I
have certainly seen this room before."

The following morning rose brilliantly, and
Mrs. Chetwynde's first movement on entering
her daughters' room with motherly inquiries
as to how they had rested in their new home,
was towards the window. She looked over
the little gardens to the distance where,
between lines of irregularly-constructed
buildings, glimpses were to be caught of the
low Surrey hills. After gazing some moments,
her eye drew slowly, almost unconsciously,
back, over the shrubs and trees, more or less
flourishing, that decorated the neighbours'
premises, until it was arrested by the sight
of a fine brown beech. She put her hand to
her head thoughtfully, saying:

"Which of you, children, used to call these
brown beeches coffee-trees?"

Olivia laughed, and replied:

"None of us, mama. Why there were
plenty at Harringby, and we knew them
well enough, of course."

"But somebody called them coffee-trees,
I'm sure."

"Perhaps you did yourself, mama, when
you were a little girl," suggested one of the
smaller children, who was putting a crust of
bread into one of the wide-open mouths on
the chimney-piece.