ould try and get well and strong. He would feel, at the
distance, that she was true to his wishes; that she was fitting herself
to be again his companion: seven days would soon pass. Hope, that can
never long quit the heart of childhood, brightened over her meditations,
as the morning sun over a landscape that just before had lain sad amidst
twilight and under rains.

When she came downstairs, Mrs. Gooch was pleased and surprised to
observe the placid smile upon her face, and the quiet activity with
which, after the morning meal, she moved about by the good woman's
side assisting her in her dairywork and other housewife tasks, talking
little, comprehending quickly,--composed, cheerful.

"I am so glad to see you don't pine after your good grandpapa, as we
feared you would."

"He told me not to pine," answered Sophy, simply, but with a quivering
lip.

When the noon deepened, and it became too warm for exercise, Sophy
timidly asked if Mrs. Gooch had any worsted and knitting-needles, and
being accommodated with those implements and materials, she withdrew to
the arbour, and seated herself to work,--solitary and tranquil.

What made, perhaps, the chief strength in this poor child's nature
was its intense trustfulness,--a part, perhaps, of its instinctive
appreciation of truth. She trusted in Waife, in the future, in
Providence, in her own childish, not helpless, self.

Already, as her slight fingers sorted the worsteds and her graceful
taste shaded their hues into blended harmony, her mind was weaving, not
less harmoniously, the hues in the woof of dreams,--the cottage home,
the harmless tasks, Waife with his pipe in the armchair under some
porch, covered like that one yonder,--why not?--with fragrant woodbine,
and life if humble, honest, truthful, not shrinking from the day, so
that if Lionel met her again she should not blush, nor he be shocked.
And if their ways were so different as her grandfather said, still they
might cross, as they had crossed before, and--the work slid from
her hand--the sweet lips parted, smiling: a picture came before her
eyes,--her grandfather, Lionel, herself; all three, friends, and happy;
a stream, fair as the Thames had seemed; green trees all bathed in
summer; the boat gliding by; in that boat they three, borne softly
on,--away, away,--what matters whither?--by her side the old man; facing
her, the boy's bright kind eyes. She started. She heard noises,--a swing
ing gate, footsteps. She