leet; an' then I wakkened. Eh, Mrs. Francis, dunnot ye think--dunnot
ye raly think--as th' Lord sent me that dream to comfort me? Eh, I
feel sure hoo's in heaven now, an' hoo's thinkin' o' me. I cannot tell
ye how 'appy it mak's me."

"Eye hath not seen," says St. Paul, "ear hath not heard." Very
different was poor Mary's vision. Think of it: the little old woman in
her working dress, with the sleeves rolled up on her skinny arms--the
"goldy rays, same as ye see on Christmas cards." But, nevertheless,
even in her attic room she has had a glimpse of Paradise.

THE ROMANCE OF BROTHER JOHN

Mrs. Cross was gardening; it was an occupation in which she took great
pleasure, not merely on account of her affection for the little plot
of ground which she miraculously contrived to render bright at all
seasons, but because it afforded her ample opportunities for
supervising her neighbours' affairs. While she watered her stocks, or
tied up her carnations, she was enabled to throw an occasional keen
glance in at the open doorway on either side of her; she knew
precisely what Mrs. Barnes had for dinner, and how large was Mrs.
Frizzel's wash. Squatting back on her heels in the intervals of her
labours, and negligently scratching her elbows or retwisting her
untidy coil of hair, she would even hearken discreetly to such scraps
of conversation as enlivened meal or toil. She knew all about Mrs.
Frizzel's last letter from her daughter Susan, and could give the
precise details of young Barnes' encounter with the stalwart yeoman
who had supplanted him in the affections of his sweetheart. She would
also hail from over the hedge the driver of any passing tradesman's
cart, and was thus enabled to possess herself of the latest news from
"town" a mile away. By craning her neck a little to the right she
could catch a glimpse of the walls and roofs of this centre of
activity, and by extending it in the other direction she had a peep of
the high road, where sometimes as many as a dozen vehicles passed of
an afternoon.

Her eyes were strained towards this favourite point of view on one
particularly sultry August evening; her own hedge, even, was sprinkled
with dust, while the double row which guarded the glaring stretch
yonder was absolutely white.

Mrs. Cross's little garden was, however, a pleasant spot, even on this
glowing, breathless afternoon. She had been watering her borders, and
a delicious smell of damp earth mingled with the