ut
Meta Neale's life in this world, and I am trying to talk about her life
in the next. Forgive a foolish old woman, who sits and dreams over her
fire."

It was pleasant to see the look in Andrew's eyes when his mother called
herself a foolish old woman. His glance had flatly contradicted her
statement before Elsie spoke.

"Mrs. Beaton," she said earnestly, "I like to hear your notions. You
have done me good. I have been thinking a great deal too much lately
about the things that are temporal. There were no spiritual influences
in my Sussex home," she added, with a sigh.

"One ought to look up sometimes," said Andrew; "but one mustn't forget
the story of that great artist who was painting the ceiling of a chapel
for two years. He got into such a confirmed habit of looking up that it
cost him a mighty effort to look down at the common ground he had to
walk on."

Mrs. Beaton poured out tea for her son, and smiled at Elsie across the
table. It was a humble home at the back of a London shop, but Elsie
found here the thought and refinement which she had so often missed in
other houses. She remembered the prattle which usually accompanied the
clatter of afternoon teacups, and the bits of scandal handed round with
the cake.

"I don't think we will dwell too long on the end of Meta's earthly
love-story," said Mrs. Beaton, after a pause; "she has told you enough
in her manuscript. For nearly a year after Harold Waring died she was
living and working among us, and taking care of Jamie. It was in
December--just before Christmas--that Mrs. Penn found her by the child's
side in her last sleep."

There was another pause. Elsie felt that tears were gathering in her
eyes and could not speak. It was well that Andrew broke the silence.

"It is just a year and six months since Mrs. Penn and Jamie went away,"
he said. "She had grown tired of her house, I think, and the death of
Miss Neale preyed upon her mind. Some one came and took house and
furniture off her hands. My mother and I have been expecting a letter,
but no letter has come."

"I think we ought to bestir ourselves," the old lady remarked. "Mrs.
Penn was not quite the right person to have the care of a boy. If I
hadn't believed that we should be informed of her movements, I would not
have let Jamie go so easily. But the child clung to her very much after
Miss Neale's death; no one else could comfort him."

"Have you ever heard of Arnold Wayne?" Elsie suddenly asked.