ects for
thought. Her father was very unlike himself, Julia said, and growing
more feeble and more ill every day; though by slow degrees. She wished
Eleanor would write her letters without any religion in them; for she
supposed _that_ was what her mother would not let her read; so she
never had the comfort of seeing Eleanor's letters for herself, but Mrs.
Powle read aloud bits from them. "Very little bits, too," added Julia,
"I guess your letters have more religion in them than anything else.
But you see it is no use." Eleanor read this passage aloud to Mrs.
Caxton.

"Is that true, Eleanor?"

"No, ma'am. I write to Julia of everything that I do, all day long, and
of everything and everybody that interests me. What mamma does not like
comes in, of course, with it all; but I do very little preaching, aunt
Caxton."

"I would go on just so, my dear. I would not alter the style of my
letters."

So the flowers of June were replaced by the flowers of July; and the
beauties of July gave place to the purple "ling" of August, with
gentian and centaury and St. John's wort; and then came the Autumn
changes, with the less delicate blossoms of that later time, amidst
which the eclipsed meadow-sweet came quite into favour again. Still
Eleanor brought wild things from the hills and the streams, though she
applied more now to Mrs. Caxton's home store in the garden; wild mints
and Artemisias and the Michaelmas daisy still came home with her from
her rides and walks; the rides and walks in which Eleanor was a
ministering angel to many a poor house, many an ignorant soul and many
a failing or ailing body.

Then came October; and with the first days of October the news that her
father was dead.

It added much bitterness to Eleanor's grief, that Mrs. Powle entirely
declined to have her come home, even for a brief stay. If she chose to
submit to conditions, her mother wrote, she would be welcome; it was
not too late; but if she held to her perversity, she must bear the
consequences. She did not own her nor want her. She gave her up to her
aunt Caxton. Her remaining daughter was in her hands, and she meant to
keep her there. Eleanor, she knew, if she came home would come to sow
rebellion. She should not come to do that, either then or at all.

Mildly quiet and decided Mrs. Powle's letter was; very decided, and so
cool as to give every assurance the decision would be persisted in.
Eleanor felt this very much. She kept on her usual way