ert best leave out a warm kerchief for the journey."

"And my velvet hood, Aunt, and the green kirtle?"

"Nay, I have packed them, not to be fetched out till we reach London.
Thou mayest have thy crimson sleeves withal, an' it list thee."

Lettice fetched the things, and her aunt packed them in one of the great
leather trunks, with beautiful neatness. As she smoothed out the blue
kirtle, she asked--"Lettice, art thou sorry to be gone?"

"Truly, Aunt, I scarce know," was the answer. "I am sorry to leave Aunt
Milisent and my cousins, and Aunt Frances,"--but Aunt Frances was an
evident after-thought--"and I dare say I shall be sorry to leave all the
places I know, when the time comes. But then so many of us are going,--
you, and Grandmother, and Aunt Edith, and Cousin Aubrey, and Aunt
Faith--and there are so many new places to see, that on the whole I
don't think I am very sorry."

"No, very like not, child."

"Not now," said a third voice, softly, and Lettice looked up at another
aunt whose presence she had not previously noticed. This was certainly
no sister of the two plain women whose acquaintance we have just made.
Temperance Murthwaite had outlived her small share of good looks, and
Faith's had long since been washed away in tears; but Edith Louvaine had
been extremely beautiful, and yet was so notwithstanding her forty
years. Her hair was dark brown, with a golden gleam when the sun caught
it, and her eyes a deep blue, almost violet. Her voice was sweet and
quiet--of that type of quietness which hides behind it a reserve of
power and feeling. "At eighteen, Lettice, we are not commonly sorry to
leave home. Much sorrier at thirty-eight: and at eighty, I think, there
is little to leave but graves."

"Ay, but they're not all dug by the sexton," remarked Temperance,
patting the blue kirtle to make it lie in the hole she had left for it.
"At any rate, the sorest epitaphs are oft invisible save to them that
have eyes to see them."

Edith did not answer, and the work went on. At length, suddenly, the
question was asked--

"Whence came you, Edith?"

"From Mere Lea, whither I have been with Mother and Aubrey, to say
farewell."

"And for why came you hither? Not to say farewell, I reckon."

"Nay," replied Edith, smiling. "I thought I might somewhat help you,
Temperance. We must all try to spare poor Faith."

"Spare poor Faith!" repeated Temperance, in a sarcastic tone. "Tell you
what, Edith Louvain