iked.
Sometimes she would lie still for hours on the cushions which Mrs.
Eastwood had laid on the grass for her benefit, gazing through the
flickering green leaves into the blue depths of the sky, her earnest
eyes looking as if they penetrated beyond things visible, and held
communion with thoughts not suggested by any mortal voice.

Often in the afternoons, while Amy was safe and happy with her little
friends, Mary and Lucy would take a walk of some miles, carrying
perhaps some message or comfort for some of Dr. Eastwood's poor
patients, or driving with him on some of his distant rounds, or rowing
in a boat on the river with one of Mary's brothers, to gather
water-lilies, and bring home their snowy or golden flowers in their
waxlike beauty to delight little Amy, who was sensitively alive to all
natural loveliness.

During these expeditions the two girls discussed almost every
conceivable topic of mutual interest, and gave each other the history
of their previous lives, though Mary's had flowed on almost as
uneventfully as Lucy's had done previous to her father's death. They
compared notes as to their favourite books, poetry, and theories,
their tastes being sufficiently different to give rise to many a
pleasant, good-humoured controversy. Sometimes, when deeper chords
were touched, they confided to each other some of their spiritual
history,--what influences had first brought them to know a Saviour's
love, and then led their hearts to Him who had given Himself for them.
Mary, who had a little class of her own at Oakvale, listened with
much interest to the account of Miss Preston's parting words to her
class, and the influence they had had on her scholars.

About her dear departed father, too, and the beloved home-circle, Lucy
had much to tell. She said much less about the Brooke family; and
Mary, who could understand how little congenial was the atmosphere of
her uncle's house, respected her reticence. Lucy felt that she had no
right to communicate any unfavourable impression of those from whom
she had received so much kindness, and whose hospitality and kindness
she had enjoyed so long.

"I always felt as if I wanted to know you better, Mary, when we were
at Mrs. Wilmot's," said Lucy one evening, as they were returning home
from a woodland walk, laden with wild-flowers and ferns. Mary coloured
a little, and hesitated.

"I'm afraid I was very stiff and selfish, Lucy dear," she replied;
"but mamma used to give me