een viewed with such favor as is
this matutinal call.

"Cissy is out: she has gone to the village," says Mrs. Redmond,
scarcely thinking Clarissa has come all the way from Gowran to spend
an hour alone with her.

"I am sorry: but it is you I most particularly wanted to see. What a
delicious day it is! I walked all the way from Gowran, and the sun was
rather too much for me; but how cool it always is here! This room
never seems stuffy or over-heated, as other rooms do."

"It is a wretched place, quite wretched," says Mrs. Redmond, with a
depreciating glance directed at a distant sofa that might indeed be
termed patriarchal.

"What are you doing?" asks Clarissa, promptly, feeling she cannot with
any dignity defend the sofa. "Darning? Why can't I help you?--I am
sure I could darn. Oh, what a quantity of socks! Are they all broken?"
looking with awe upon the overflowing basket that lies close to Mrs.
Redmond's feet.

"Every one of them," replies that matron, with unction. "I can't think
how they do it, but I assure you they never come out of the wash
without innumerable tears." Whether she is alluding, in her graceful
fashion, to her children or their socks, seems at present doubtful. "I
sometimes fancy they must take their boots off and dance on the sharp
pebbles to bring them to such a pass; but they say they don't. Yet
how to account for this?" She holds up one bony hand, decorated with a
faded sock, in a somewhat triumphant fashion, and lets three emaciated
fingers start to life through the toe of it.

"Do let me help you," says Clarissa, with entreaty, and, stooping to
the basket, she rummages there until she produces a needle, a thimble,
and some thread. "I dare say I shall get on splendidly, if you will
just give me a hint now and then and tell me when I am stitching them
up too tightly."

This hardly sounds promising, but Mrs. Redmond heeds her not.

"My dear, pray do not trouble yourself with such uninteresting work,"
she says, hastily. "It really makes me unhappy to see you so employed;
and that sock of all others,--it is Bobby's, and I'm sure there must
be something wrong with his heels. If you insist on helping me, do try
another."

"No, I shall stitch up Bobby, or die in the attempt," says Miss
Peyton, valiantly. "It is quite nice work, I should think, and so
easy. I dare say after a time I should love it."

"Should you?" says Mrs. Redmond. "Well, perhaps; but for myself, I
assure you, though no o