ly wasted.

Margaret's vigorous intellect was quite capable of enjoying and
assimilating the strong, hardy diet provided for it; she knew Mr.
Ferrers's favorite authors, and would pause of her own accord to read
over again some grand passage or trenchant argument.

Hugh had once laughingly called her a blue-stocking when he had found
the brother and sister at their studies, but he had no idea of the
extent of Margaret's erudition; in earlier years she had learned a
little Greek, and was able to read the Greek Testament to Raby--she
was indeed "his eyes," as he fondly termed her, and those who listened
to the eloquent sermons of the blind vicar of Sandycliffe little knew
how much of that precious store of wisdom and scholarly research was
owing to Margaret's unselfish devotion; Milton's daughters reading to
him in his blindness were not more devoted than she.

When their early Sunday repast was over, Margaret, as usual, led the
way to the old walnut-tree seat; she had Keble's "Christian Year" in
her hand and a volume of Herbert's poems--for wearied by his labors,
Raby often preferred some sacred poetry or interesting biography to be
read to him between the services, or often he bade her close her book
or read to herself if his thoughts were busy with his evening sermon.

The strip of lawn that surrounded the walnut-tree led to a broad
gravel walk with a sun-dial and a high southern wall where peaches
ripened, and nectarines and apricots sunned themselves; here there was
another seat, where on cold autumn mornings or mild winter days one
could sit and feel the mild, chastened sunshine stealing round one
with temperate warmth; a row of bee-hives stood under the wall, where
sweetest honey from the surrounding clover-fields was made by the busy
brown workers, "the little liverymen of industry," as Raby called
them, or "his preachers in brown."

Margaret glanced at her brother rather anxiously as she took her place
beside him; he looked more than usually tired, she thought; deep lines
furrowed his broad forehead, and the firmly compressed lips spoke of
some effort to repress heart-weariness.

"He is thinking of our poor child," she said to herself, as she turned
to the beautiful poem for the seventh Sunday after Trinity: "From
whence can a man satisfy these men with bread here in the
wilderness"--the very text as she knew that Raby had selected for his
evening sermon at Pierrepoint; but as her smooth, melodious voice
l