idleness; yet they were not the less ready to teach Mary anything she
desired to learn. They told her those secret arts by which coppers and
brasses are made things of beauty, and meet adornment for an old oak
mantelshelf. They allowed her to look on at the milking of the cow, and
at the churning of the butter; and at bread making, and cake making, and
pie and pudding making; and some pleasant hours were spent in the
acquirement of this useful knowledge. Mary did not neglect the invalid
during this new phase of her existence. Lady Maulevrier was a lover of
routine, and she liked her granddaughter to go to her at the same hour
every day. From eleven to twelve was the time for Mary's duty as
amanuensis. Sometimes there were no letters to be written. Sometimes
there were several; but her ladyship rarely allowed the task to go
beyond the stroke of noon. At noon Mary was free, and free till five
o'clock, when she was generally in attendance, ready to give Lady
Maulevrier her afternoon tea, and sit and talk with her, and tell her
any scraps of local news which she had gathered in the day.

There were days on which her ladyship preferred to take her tea alone,
and Mary was left free to follow her own devices till dinner-time.

'I do not feel equal even to your society to-day, my dear,' her ladyship
would say; 'go and enjoy yourself with your dogs and your tennis;'
forgetting that there was very seldom anybody on the premises with whom
Lady Mary could play tennis.

But in these lonely days of Mary Haselden's life there was one crowning
bliss which was almost enough to sweeten solitude, and take away the
sting of separation; and that was the delight of expecting and receiving
her lover's letters. Busily as Mr. Hammond must be engaged in fighting
the battle of life, he was in no way wanting in his duty as a lover. He
wrote to Mary every other day; but though his letters were long, they
told her hardly anything of himself or his occupation. He wrote about
pictures, books, music, such things as he knew must be interesting to
her; but of his own struggles not a word.

'Poor fellow,' thought Mary. 'He is afraid to sadden me by telling me
how hard the struggle is.'

Her own letters to her betrothed were simple outpourings of girlish
love, breathing that too flattering-sweet idolatry which an innocent
girl gives to her first lover. Mary wrote as if she herself were of the
least possible value among created things.

With one of M