a shilling. Carrying the
parcel, she went up the street and passed old Iden's door on elate
instep, happy that she had not got to cross his threshold that day,
happy to think she had the boots for her mother. Looking in at two or
three dingy little shops, she fixed at last on one, and bought
half-a-dozen of the very finest mild bloaters, of which Mrs. Iden was so
fond. This finished the savings, and she turned quickly for home. The
bloaters being merely bound round with one thin sheet of newspaper,
soon imparted their odour to her hand.

A lady whose hand smells of bloaters is not, I hope, too ideal; I hope
you will see now that I am not imaginative, or given to the heroinesque.
Amaryllis, I can tell you, was quite absorbed in the bloaters and the
boots; a very sweet, true, and loving hand it was, in spite of the
bloaters--one to kiss fervently.

They soon had the bloaters on over a clear fire of wood-coals, and while
they cooked the mother tried her new boots, naturally not a little
pleased with the thoughtful present. The Flamma blood surged with
gratitude; she would have given her girl the world at that moment. That
she should have remembered her mother showed such a good disposition;
there was no one like Amaryllis.

"Pah!" said Iden, just then entering, "pah!" with a gasp; and holding
his handkerchief to his nose, he rushed out faster than he came in, for
the smell of bloaters was the pestilence to him.

They only laughed all the merrier over their supper.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XX.

RIGHT at the top of the house there was a large, unfurnished room, which
Amaryllis had taken as her own long since. It was her study, her
thinking-room, her private chapel and praying-room, her one place of
solitude, silence, and retirement.

The days had gone on, and it was near the end of April. Coming up the
dark stairs one morning, she found them still darker, because she had
just left the sunshine. They were built very narrow, as usual in old
country-houses, and the landing shut off with a door, so that when you
were in them you seemed to be in a box. There was no carpet--bare
boards; old-fashioned folk did not carpet their stairs; no handrail; the
edges of the steps worm-eaten and ragged, little bits apt to break off
under sudden pressure, so that the board looked as if it had been
nibbled by mice.

Shutting the landing door behind her, Amaryllis was in perfect darkness,
but her feet