r started on their tour of inspection,
and Rhoda reflected that she could not employ herself better during
their absence than by preparing, so far as might be, for the life ahead.
She went upstairs to her own sitting-room, and made a sweeping survey
of her treasures. The books in the hanging cases must, of course, be
left behind, since they were too numerous to carry. She looked lovingly
at their bright gold and leather backs, and took down a special
favourite here and there, to dip into its contents. The Waverley novels
ran in a long, yellow line across one shelf; Dickens, clad in red, came
immediately beneath; and a whole row of poets on the bottom shelf.
Wordsworth was a prize from Fraulein, but his pages were still stiff and
unread; Longfellow opened of himself at "Hiawatha"; while Tennyson, most
beloved of all, held half a dozen markers at favourite passages. His
portrait hung close at hand, a copy of that wonderful portrait by Watts,
which seems to have immortalised all the power and beauty of the
strange, sad face. Rhoda nicked a grain of dust from the glass surface,
and carefully straightened the frame against the wall, for this picture
was one of her greatest treasures, and respected accordingly. Another
case held books of stories, ranging from the fairy tales of childhood to
the publications of last year; a third was devoted to bound volumes of
magazines, and a fourth to the less showy and interesting school-books.

"It's no use taking _you_!" said Rhoda scornfully. "I expect you are
quite out of date. You can stay here and rest, and when I come back
I'll point out your errors, and send you into the lumber-room to make
room for the new ones!" Then she turned her attention to the
mantelpiece, on which reposed a quite extraordinary number of miniature
jugs. Jugs, jugs everywhere, and nothing but jugs; blue jugs, yellow
jugs, brown jugs, red jugs; Worcester jugs with delicate white figures
against a background of blue; jugs worth a penny sterling at the village
emporium; plain jugs, iridescent jugs; jugs with one handle, with two,
with three, with none at all. Their variety was as puzzling as their
number, but Rhoda gazed at them with all the pride of the collector.
"Jugs"--unrivalled by postcards, stamps, or crests--had been her mania
for a year on end, and the result was dear to her heart. To find a new
jug to add to the collection had appeared one of the chief objects in
travelling; an expedition to