lock to eight, and all work together in the garden parlour,
or out in the orchard beneath the apple-trees.

It was then that we made a compact with her, after a great deal of
trouble, that she should tell or read a story every day after tea, and
in return we each promised to make some specially pretty article for
her stall--for our governess had been persuaded to take a stall by some
of the people who subscribed to the infirmary, and her old school-fellow
Mrs. Norbury was to share it with her.

I don't suppose that any of us will ever forget Miss Grantley's pretty
parlour. It was a pattern of neatness and freshness, with its green silk
curtains just shading the French window which was opened to the soft
July air bearing the scent of the roses and jessamine; its low
easy-chairs, of various patterns, its oval table with a cover of white
and gold, its neat cabinet piano, the pretty dainty chimney ornaments,
the few cool light sketches in water-colour that adorned the walls, the
small book-case with a few charmingly bound volumes which filled up one
recess by the fireplace, and the china closet that occupied the other.
The contents of this china closet were always interesting to us, for
they consisted of some rare specimens of porcelain, old Chelsea, and
other exquisite ware, including the delicate tea-service which was
brought out on high days and holidays, and was in daily use during the
memorable week that we had devoted to the fancy fair.

One might go on gossiping about some of the "belongings" of this room,
and the old china and the quaint handsome tea equipage, but that this is
only a kind of introduction to our governess, or rather to the stories
she told us out of school during that working holiday. It was on the
Monday evening, after we had come in from the orchard and had finished
tea, one toothsome accompaniment to which was some delectable apricot
jam upon crisp toast, that Annie Bowers, who had been so quiet that she
might have been asleep, said in her usual deliberate way: "Miss
Grantley, that lovely silver cup (or shall I call it a vase?) fascinates
me more every time I look at it, and I shall never be contented till you
let me make a sketch of it; but the worst of it is there is no way of
making a drawing that will show all the gleam and shadow that plays upon
old silver."

"Dear me, how very poetical we are!" said Sarah Jorring interrupting.

"Not at all," said Annie in the same sleepy voice. "Anybody