to pass. Mrs. Powle was too
wise to touch her finger to the game.

Several weeks went by, during which Eleanor had no chance to think of
anything but Mr. Carlisle and the matters he presented for her notice.
At the end of that time he was obliged to go up to London on sudden
business. It made a great lull in the house; and Eleanor began to sit
in her garden parlour again and dream. While dreaming one day, she
heard the voice of her little sister sobbing at the door-step. She had
not observed before that she was sitting there.

"Julia!" said Eleanor--"What is the matter?"

Julia would not immediately say, but then faltered out, "Mr. Rhys."

"Mr. Rhys! What of him?"

"He's sick. He's going to die, I know."

"How do you know he is sick? Come, stop crying, Julia, and speak. What
makes you think he is sick?"

"Because he just lies on the sofa, and looks so white, and he can't
keep school. He sent away the boys yesterday."

"Does he see the doctor?"

"No. I don't know. No, I know he don't," said Julia; "because the old
woman said he ought to see him."

"What old woman, child?"

"His old woman--Mrs. Williams. And mamma said I might have some jelly
and some sago for him--and there is nobody to take it. Foster is out of
the way, and Jack is busy, and I can't get anybody."

Julia's tears were very sincere.

"Stop crying, child, and I will go with you myself. I have not had a
walk to-day, or a ride, or anything. Come, get ready, and you and I
will take it."

Julia did not wait even for thanks; she was never given to be
ceremonious; but sprang away to do as her sister had said. In a few
minutes they were off, going through the garden, each with a little
basket in her hand. Julia's tears were exchanged for the most sunshiny
gladness.

It was a sunshiny day altogether, in the end of summer, and the heat
was sultry. Neither sister minded weather of any sort; nevertheless
they chose the shady side of the road and went very leisurely, along by
the hedgerows and under the elms and beeches with which all the way to
the village was more or less shaded. It was a long walk, even to the
village. The cottage where Mr. Rhys had his abode was yet further on.
The village must be passed on the way to it.

It was a long line of cottages, standing for the most part on one side
the street only; the sweet hedgerow on the other side only here and
there broken by a white wicket gate. The houses were humble enough; yet
in universal