the place came in and made it pleasant;
brought books and pictures, flowers and fruit, and made a little
treat of it for mind and heart and body. It was some plan for one of
these that had taken Desire and Hazel to Miss Grapp's to-day.

Miss Euphrasia's first feeling was disappointment. It seemed as if
her morning were going a wee wrong after all. But her second
thought--that it was surely all in the day's work, and had happened
so by no mistake--took her in, with a cheery and really expectant
face, to Rachel Froke's gray parlor, to "sit her down a five
minutes, and rest." She confidently looked for her business then to
be declared to her, since the business she thought she had come upon
was set aside.

"I have had a great mind to come to thee," were the first words
Rachel said, as her visitor seated herself in the low chair, twin to
her own, which she kept for friends. Rachel Froke liked her own; but
she never felt any special comfort comfortably her own, until she
could hold it thus duplicated.

"I have wanted for a little while past to talk to some one, and
Hapsie Craydocke would not do. Everything she knows shines so
quickly out of those small kind eyes of hers. Hapsie would have
looked at me in an unspeakable way, and told it all out too soon. I
have a secret, Euphrasia, and it troubleth me; yet not very much for
myself; and I know it need not trouble me for anything. I have a
reason that may make me leave this place,--for a time at least; and
I am sorry for Desire, for she will miss me. Frendely can do all
that I do, and she hath the same wish for everything at heart; but
then who would help Frendely? She could not get on alone for thee
knows the house is large, and Desire is always very busy, with work
that should not be hindered. Can thee think of any way? I cannot
bear that any uncertain, trustless person should come in here. There
hath never been a common servant in this house. Doesn't thee think
the Lord hath some one ready since He makes my place empty? And how
shall we go rightly to find out?"

"Tell me first, Rachel, of your own matter. Is it any trouble,--any
grief or pain?"

Rachel had quite forgot. The real trouble of it was this perplexity
that she had told. The rest of it--that she knew was all right. She
would not call it trouble--that which she simply had to wait and
bear; but that in which she had to do, and knew not just how to "go
rightly about,"--it was that she felt as the disquiet.

S