free from all taint of such wild frivolisms.

"All is ready now," says Miss Priscilla,--who is the Martha at Moyne,
while we may regard Miss Penelope as the Mary. "The rooms are prepared,
nothing is wanting, and the flowers smell so sweet. I have sent the
carriage to meet them, though I know the train cannot be here for quite
an hour yet; but I think it wise always to be in time."

"There is nothing like it," says Miss Penelope, placidly.

"Now I shall rest here with you a little while," goes on the elder
maiden, complacently, "and think of all that is likely to happen."

"Really," says Miss Penelope, lowering her work and glancing restlessly
at her sister, "I feel more nervous than I can say, when I think of
their coming. What on earth should we do, dear Priscilla, if they took a
dislike to us?"

"I have thought of that myself," says Miss Priscilla, in an awe-struck
tone. "We are not attractive, Penelope: beyond a few--a _very_
few--insignificant touches," with an inward glance at her fine hair, "we
are absolutely outside the pale of beauty. I wonder if Monica will be
like her mother, or if----"

Here something happens that puts a final stop to all conversation. The
door is opened, quickly, impetuously; there is a sound as of many
footsteps on the threshold without.

The old ladies start in their seats, and sit upright, trembling
excessively. What can have happened? Has the sedate Ryan come to
loggerheads with Mrs. Reilly the cook? (a state of things often
threatened); and are they now standing on the mat meditating further
bloodshed?

A moment surcharged with thrilling suspense goes by, and then, not Ryan
or the cook, but a much more perplexing vision comes slowly into the
room.

It is a very radiant vision, though it is clothed in mourning garments,
full of grace and beauty. Very shy, with parted lips, and brilliant
frightened eyes, but perfect as an opening flower.

Is it a child or a woman? is the first question that strikes Miss
Penelope. As for Miss Priscilla, she is too surprised for thought of any
kind, too lost in admiration of the little, gracious uncertain, figure,
with its deep-blue eyes glancing up at her with a half-terrified yet
trusting expression, to give way to speech of any kind.

She is slight, and slim as a hazel wand. Her hair is nut-brown, with a
red gold tinge running through it. Her nose is adorable, if slightly
tilted; her mouth is a red, red rose, sad but sweet, and full of
purp