nd that her son. To
Mehetabel she told her mind, and Mehetabel shared all her hopes;
the heart of the girl beat in entire sympathy with that of the
hostess. Iver's letters were read and re-read, commented on, and
a thousand things read into them by the love of the mother that
were not, and could not be there. These letters were ever in the
girl's bosom, kept there to be out of reach of old Simon, and to
be accessible at all moments to the hungering mother. They heard
that Iver had taken to painting, and that he was progressing in his
profession; that he gave lessons and sold pictures.

What musings this gave rise to! what imaginations! What expectations!

Mrs. Verstage never wearied of talking of Iver to Mehetabel, and
it never wearied the girl to speak with the mother about him.

The girl felt that she was indispensable to the old woman; but that
she was only indispensable to her so long as Iver was away never
entered into her imagination.

There is a love that is selfish as well as a love that is wholly
self-annihilating, and an inexperienced child is incapable of
distinguishing one from the other.

There is false perspective in the human heart as well as upon
signboards.

CHAPTER VIII.

ONLY A CHARITY GIRL.

Simon Verstage sat outside the door of his house, one hot June
evening, smoking his pipe.

By his side sat his wife, the hostess of the Ship. Eighteen years
have passed since we saw her last, and in these years she has
become more plump, a little more set in features, and mottled in
complexion, but hardly otherwise older in appearance.

She was one of those women who wear well, till a sickness or a
piercing sorrow breaks them down, and then they descend life's
ladder with a drop, and not by easy graduation.

Yet Mrs. Verstage had not been devoid of trouble, for the loss of
her son, the very apple of her eye, had left an ache in her heart
that would have been unendurable, were not the balm of hope
dropped into the wound. Mehetabel, or as she was usually called
Matabel, had relieved her of the most onerous part of her avocation.
Moreover, she was not a woman to fret herself to fiddle-strings;
she was resolute and patient. She had formed a determination to
have her son home again, even if she had to wait for that till
his father was put under ground. She was several years younger
than Simon, and in the order of nature might calculate on enjoyment
of her widowhood.

Simon and his wife sat in