THE HOWIES OF BELLEKNOWES:

Otago Witness, Issue 2181, 19 December 1895, Page 21

THE HOWIES OF BELLEKNOWES:

A STORY OF A CANTERBURY FARM.

By A.. L. O. CX

Awarded SECOND PRIZE (£5 ss) in the Witness Prize Tah ■Competition of 1895. ■ r\ » ' Chapter I. DLL, if that's the spirit yon are in, the sooner yonr dear out the better, yon ungrateful, nnnataral eon 1 You would lay down the law, would yon ? And unless the whole household abide by it you will strike out for yourself, you will ? Go ! I tell ycu. There are plenty who would be thankful to fill your place." "You are so unreosonable, father. You won't even listen to what I say. Surely there's nothing outrageous in asking for the weekly wages yon pay the other men, or the option of going where I can earn enough to build and furnish a house of my own." 11 So that you can marry that fool of a girl, who knows as much about the work of a farm as my boat does—an empty-headed, conceited piece of Impudence, who can twist you round her little finger, you great scftie that you are. A fine dance she'll lead you, my gentleman." "I tell- you, father, I won't hear another word against Ye ra. She is a most refined and educated " " A lot of good her education will do her, hoeing turnips and planting •spuds.' A pretty sight all her finely will make in the byre." " Fath6r, it's not a cowboy I want for a wife. I want a companion — a sweet, refined, educated lady that I can trust and love— one who will be not only a mother, but a sweet example to my children — and such a lady j B >» _ " Bah ! A lot of sick sentiment. You'll end your days in the workhouse if you'don'c become a little more practical." " Well, father, once more I ask you : Will you give £1 a week from this day forward if I" i " I'll do nothing of the kind. If you like to drop all this confounded feolery and do your work here as any other respectable son would, and if you either don't marry at all or get some decent farmer's daughter, who would be of some use, then I'll leave you the farm and all its belongings — horse and all, of coarse ; but if not, then I have no more to say to you." " Well, then, father, I must go." "Go to the deuce for all I c*re 1 I can hardly keep my hands off you 1 " " D jn't cry, mother ; it's all right. The world's wide, and a fellow's all ths better to knock about a bit before he settles down." " Oh, Andrew, Andrew 1 tae think that I should live tae see the day. It's a' true what your faither says — yell live tae rue the day if ye gang and mairry that puir creature ©' a girl that cannJpit her haun' tae ony thing I " " Goodness gracious, mother 1 how do you know she can't ? You don't know her. I tell you this, she's as * ensible and clever a girl aq our Betsy, and a jolly sight prettier. Wait till you know her and. you. will speak very differently." . " Andrew, Andrew I yell rue the day — hearken tae your auld mither and tide at hame." " A fellow can't work for nothing all bis days, mother. And besides, I want to see the world. One would think by the way you are going on that I was going to commit some terrible crime. I am not the first that has struck out for himself — I suppose you and father must have done it some day." " Don't be imp3rtinent, young man," said his father angrily. "Ah, well I 1 have only an hour and a-half to catch the train, so goodbye. Good-bye, father ; you might shake hands 1 Good-bye, mother," kissing her. " I'll come and" see yon some Christmas, perhaps ; I'll write, too. Good-bye, B6tsy — look after mother. You see, I'm not so bad as you would make out," he said, as he waved his bat and strode off down the winding path, over the old bridge and past the byre, where he stopped to put a panel right, and then patted the old dog. Andrew gava one parting glance towards the house, but seeing no one hurried on to the main road, and was Boon speeding on bis way to Christcburch in the train. » The old farmhouse seemed stracgely empty, and a Sabbath stillness seemed to reign over the broad fields and beautiful woods ; even the blackbird's note had a melancholy ring as it mingled with the soft breeze and murmuring stream away down the qaiet orchard. It was sad even to see the horses being led out by strange hands, for they had always been Andrew's especial care. At dinner the quietness was oppressive. The men knew quite as well as their master what bad happened, but nothing whatever was said until Haworth, as he waß striding out to bis work, turned a moment to say, "Jack, you'll attend to the horses and all that after this. Young Andrew is going to have a turn round on his own account, and won't be back for a time, anyhow." "All right, sir," and so the matter dropped. The long summer afternoon wore sadly away, not perhaps bo heavily to the busy farmer in the open air, bat in the house there was a terrible blank. To Mrs Hi. worth and B u tsy everything seemed to speak of Andrew, but they worked aw^y as usual, for there is no time for grief in a bu^y farmhouse. The dishes were washed, the fireside cleaned, the kitchen and dairy scrubbed, the huge kettles filled and put on, the sweet home bread baked, pies and cake made, hens, pigs, and calves fed, milk skimmed, butter churned, milking done, cheeses turned, milk pans washed, all these were attended to — but, in silence. A stranger surveying too well-ordered farmhouse would have guessed nothing of the morning's proceedirg? unless he had perceived the weary listless face of the mother and marked her heavy footstep. To her the sunshine had gone out of life. What were all the charms and beauties — ay, and profits too — of this picturesque old farm without Andrew, her bonny, handsome laddie, Andrew. It had never once occurred to her that he would ever leave Birohwood Farm. What did the boy want with money to build a house when this old farmhouse was here. "True, he might not get it for a bit, a& both 6he and Haworth were hale and hearty, but then what were a I6W years to a laddie like him. It's all the doings of that vixen of a girl, she thought. Ay, she's turned bis head, the designing creature. Ay, ay, it's all her doings— what else could have done it 1 As the evening shadows lengthened, and only Haworth and the men came home to tea, a dark desolation filled the mother's heart and mind with sad and bitter thoughts of the girl who had blighted their homo. That eight as the sorrowful mother, the angry father, and the lonely, wondering daughter each brooded in silence over their own thoughts of this disobedient and miFguided boy, the same boy, some 100 miles away, stood under the shade of an old pins tree that hung over the pathway leading to the door of Vera's present home. " Parting," he whispered to Vera as the tears stole down her oheeks, " is such sweet sorrow that we should say good-night until it be to-morrow." But the unpoetic train thundered past, and again he was off. On leaving home that morning Andrew had taken the train for Obristchurch, and on reaching there immediately joined another traiu, which brought him in a short while to Fernwood. It was an oppressive day in the beginning of March ; the last boy in ; a large, but not very well ventilated, schoolroom was gathering up his books when Miss Leithfield noticed, with a sigh of relief, that the sultry nor'wester was sinking to rest. The boy who had gone returned to say " There's a gentleman at the door, Miss Leithfield," and then scampered off to join bis companions. Vera hastily put away the pencils, chalk, papers, registers, &c, into a drawer, locked it, and went to the door. "Well, I declare 1 Andrew, is it you? Where did you come from? Come in, the children arc all away." 41 I'm glad of that," he said with emphasis as he drew her to him and kissed her. "Vera, girl, what bad aic you have in herel No wonder you look pale. Let me open some windows for you." " Oh, don't trouble, Andrew ; the woman will be here in a few minutes to sweep the school. I'll come oat with you. Just a moment, and I'll be ready." So Baying she pushed the blackboards into their places, straightened half A dozen forms, closed three or four books, put slates away, locked the cupboards, threw three or four pieces of crumpled papsr into the fire, and with a magic touch gave the schoolroom a tidy and orderly appearance. Andrew looked on admiringly, and thought if mother could only see her I

By this time she had slipped on her hat, and soon they were out in the fresh air, passing along the quiet country road. Naturally they turned towards the bush, for it looked so greeD, so cool and beautiful. When they were seated on a mossy log, by the side of a little oreek, which babbled and danced and gleamed in the Bunlight, Andrew took her hand in his, and told her about his leaving home. " Isn't it straDge," he said, " that parents look upon children as violating the very laws of nature when they show signs of spreading their wings and leaving the old nest. You would think that parents, above all people, would understand why a fellow falls in love with a beautiful girl, and why he wants to make a home of his own to take her to. Father and mother think that I ought to be perfectly content to work away at home from morning till night, from week to week — yes, from year to year in the hope that by the time I am 50 or thereabouts I'll get the farm all to myself. And the very idea of falling in love with a stranger, too 7 Why, isn't there plenty of company for me at home 7 and, besides, if I had a little more to do, I wouldn't have time for sucfa sentimentality. I tell you what," he added bitterly, •' I should have struck out on my own account long ago. It's downright selfishness from beginning to end." " No, Andrew ; it is not exactly that. I don't quite agree with you there. It is very natural for them to wish to have their only son always at home with them, and they who enjoy the calm of that lonely home, after all the ups and downs and worries and changes of an eventful life, oannot understand why you should throw it overboard to wander out into the cold, unfeeling world, and all seemingly for the sake of a girl in whom they see nothing very remarkable perhaps. Bat what will you do, Andrew 1 " " Well, I am going back to Christchorch to-night with the 830 train, and to-morrow I intend to try to get some sheep-driving from Messrs Donald and Co. If s pretty well paid, and I'm used to it. I want to make a bit of money and then get somß sort of permanent employment. In fact, I've a faint hope of getting the mansgersnip of their Bankburn station. My word, Vsra, if I do," he paid, with a spring from the greund, on which he bad been lying pullirjg an ionocent fern to pieces — " if I do," he repeated with a glad, hopeful smile, " the Education Board will have to advertise for a new teacher for Fernwood. Eb, Vera 1 " he eaid, kissing her ; " and we'll get mother up to see how you can housekeep. She'll open her eyes, I tell you. They'll soon come round when they see my pretty wife spreading sunshine and happiness all around her. We'll show them that man need not live by bread alone on this glorious eartb, where there are such possibilities for pure intelligent creatures. Dear me, when you look around what a great need there is of wise, kind-hearted, and intelligent assistance." Vera smiled, for she felt the inspiration of bis burniDg, hopeful words, but she also saw that he misunderstood and undervalued the true worth of his good old parents quite as much peihaps as they misunderstood him. " No, Andrew," she said, " I have no fear for the future, and I earnestly pray God that ours may be a long, happy, useful, and unselfish life, and indeed I think — I think it will. We may live to enjoy many a happy summer when the leaves are falling and the birds are singing over the silent graves of your dear old mother, and father too. Andrew, I wish I had a mother. Whatever you do, love, do not bs provoked to write or say anything unkind or disrespectful to them. They are your own parents. They have borne the heat and burden of the day — besides, they must be fine people, both of them, to have such a sod," she said simply, looking with pardonable pride on Andrew's handsome figure and honest face. " Sweet guardian angel," was all he said, as he bent and kissed her. Her breast heaved with suppressed feeling, for she longed to tell him that she had some money — nearly £200 in the bank. The E.tucation Board had paid her well; the people had treated her kindly; her wants had been few ; she had no relations, and Farmer Brown would not hear of her paying more than 10i a week for board. Should she tell him ? Yes, she would — j but no 1 "He is proud — it will offend him ; besides, it will not do him any harm to feel his feet, and my little will come in very handy after a bit, when we are married perhaps." So she repressed the longing to tell him of her savings, and only smiled in his face as he spoke of all his plans for the future. The sun was now set, and as the darkness deepened and the birds hushed their evening song the lovers became aware of. how 1 the time bad flown. " Why, Vera, my girl," said Andrew, springing to his feet, " you've had no tea. Well, lam a nice fellow to take care of a girl." vSo saying, he led her back to her own gate, and there under the pine trees they parted, to mcct — when 7 | And so the long summer days wore away — to Vera bright and happj^ ; for, oh 1 the magic web that Love and Hope can weave, brightening even the darkest days of winter with the golden robes of summer. Bat to the gloomy, disappointed mother even the glories of summer seemed oppressive. Soon the crimson leaves turned to yellow, and then the impatient "autumn winds claimed them as their own, stripping the trees with mighty blasts, and then, tired of their frolic, letting them eink to rest any where, everywhere, in field and lane, by hedge and stream, until the earth seemed carpeted with the golden shower. And now the proud, tall, dirk fir-pines kept sentinel over the trembling, naked aspen, willow, poplar, birch, and fruit trees. As Andrew's mother beheld Nature again clothe the earth in fresh young verdure her sad heart turned longingly to the days when her son was a wee, laughing, fair-haired cherub playing with his toes, while she arranged with motherly pride his delicat6 baby garments. Ohaptbk 11. Three years have oome and gone, bringing little change to the occupants of Birchwood Farm. A few letters have been exchanged, but Andrew has not once been home. Although he has been married for two years he has not yet " had mother up to see them." " Na, na ; it wadna dae to leave everything to Betsy. You ken, she cinna mak'the cheese, the frnit's comin' on, the chickens will be oot and-need attention, and then there's ay the men tae see tae." lam afraid she was not very anxious to go,' and now it was too late, for Andrew and Vera, who bad lived these two years in a happy dream, with never a cloud to shadow their path, were now to tread the ragged eteeps of life's uncertain road. After some varied work for Donald and Co., Andrew had been made manager of Bankt urn station, and after his marriage he became a partner, as both Vera and he thought that this was the best way they could use their savings. Everything seemed to ga well, and they appeared to be settled for life when the company failed ; the senior partner disappeared, and the affairs of the firm were in a muddle. Bankburn station fell into other hande, and before long Andrew received three months' notice to give place to some person who was related to the new proprietor. The news came like a thunder-clap, and for a time threw the young- couple into consternation. " Vera, Vera 1 what shall we do 7 Only three months till ;to think that it should come at such a time ! Why, we shall have to move almost at the very time." All night he lay awake thinking — thinking — thinking. He could not think what to do ; times were dull, and there were many in the field now. Months before leaving hit) parents he had h<id a private promise that the j managership of Bankburn would be offered to him, if Thomson, the man then ] in charge, should carry out his intention of going backto Scotland. Although Andrew bad said nothing to his father and mother about leaving until the very morning he did go, he bad often thought of making a change, and had been taking notice of possible situations. When, after going to Bankburd, he heard so much about the difficulty of getting a good place, he was truly thankful that his lines had indeed fallen in pleasant placeß. Bat now, what | could they do ? He could tramp it for that matter, but Vera, poor Vera. Every cent they had was sunk in the business. They had not even their furniture, the homestead having been fitted out when they went there, for occasionally Mr Donald had made it his summer residence. Fortunately, however, they were both well off for good, warm, well-made clothing, and Vera had realised her heart's desire in preparing a third wardrobe— beautiful beyond description — it would have delighted the heart of a princess. Possibly she had been a little extravagant, but she was a young wife. \ Why, her grandchild might be christened in one of tho3e beautiful robes 1 While Andrew pondered everything, a thought struck him. " Vera, darling, are you awake 1 " II Yes, love, what is it 7 " 11 1 have been thinking of you, my poor, dear lamb, in your present position." " Don't worry about me, Andrew. You know God has promised that ' He will cairy the lambs in His bosom gently lead those that are with child.' " A sob burst from Andrew, but he controlled himself and said : " Yes, my pet, I know he will. Vera, if I were to write to mother, and she were willing — quite willing — to have you at home as her own daughter, would you go for a few monthß? Your position would appeal to her womanly nature, and both father and she would learn to love you when they got to know you better — I know they would. Would you go, darling 1 " A strange tumult of thoughts rushed through Verft's brain. " Oh, if it were only her own dear mother 1 " she thought, and tears filled her eyes. " Ah, lam afraid you won't, and lam not surprised. StilM am sure they would be quite different," urged Andrew. " Write to-morrow, Andrew. It's mailday ; and if they are willing I will go." " God bless you, my darling, and may he soften my mother's heart to you, and spare to me mj littlo lamb."

Farmer Havroith was enjoying his evening pipe when the man brought In the letter*. He had pretty well got over the uncomfortable feeling of Andrew's absence, bat not so his wife, judging from her agitation whenever there was a letter to see if it was from Andrew. Was this one from him 1 Yes 1 Haworth opened it and began to read, oomplacently at first, but his patient, anxious wife soon saw that there was some unusual news, for ha jerked hia chair, laid down bis pipe, readjusted his glasses, puokored his brow, and finally having scanned the letter, Gang it on the table with an angry ejaculation. " The impudence of the rascal," he cried, "to defy his father, leave the house, marry a fool of a girl, and then presume to throw the hußßy on ub to keep 1 " " Show me the letter, Johrj,"said his wife in an agitated tone. Its contents affected her very differently, howtver ; for oho was a woman still, with a woman's heart, and a woman's cariosity too, not to speak of the strange stirring of her maternal chords which the letter produced. " The boy's no tae be blamed this time for losirg bis place, and the lassie maun hae somewhaur tae garg. What wad the warl' fay. John, if we were to turn her adrift ai sic' a time 1 I'm sure I've nae love for the girl that's blighted oor name, Still I wadna stand by tae flee Andrew's bairn born in a workhoose. Na, na, John, we'll just hae tae swallow this pill and bid him send his lassi« here. The bite she'll eat will no iuin us, and we'll jußt keep her in her Bin place, ye ken." This philosophic speech evidently satisfied John, and he answered, " Well well, I suppose so. I knew that boy would be the ruin of us. You spoiled him, woman, when he was a lad." " Daed and I did no sic' thing. He was aye as gude as gold till that girl jast carried him clean off his heid." Andrew would have saved Vera the pain of reading the reply which hii father— not his mother— sent, but such was their mntual confidence that i( was impossible to do so. The letter ran as follows :—: — Birohraond Farm, Canterbury, October 20, 18—. Dear Andrew,— We got your letter lust night. Your mother and I still feel much hurt at your unnatural behaviour, and cannot overlook your self-will. Ai " c have no desire, however, to see our grandchildren born in a workhouse we are willing to give fcod and shelter to your wife. Let her understand, however, that we will have no nonsense. It does not become anyone to look down on and aneer at people ©n vrhom they are dependent for the very bread they eat. John Haworth. F.o.— The man will bs at the station with the gig on Tuesday next. — J. H. Vera read it over slowly and carefully. Andrew stood motionless, , inwardly struggling between anger, grief, and pride. •• That's an end to that project; Vera would never go after that," he thought. But it is such moments that call forth all the good that ia in a true woman. She loved Andrew ; she knew his anxiety and perplexity ; she knew, too, somewhat of human nature, and between the lines she read of a sensitiveness which overestimated the contrast between their homeliness and her superior refinement. Vera stood still a moment with the letter in her hand, and then — laughed— a right, merry, innocent, girlish laugh. " Wouldn't D.ckens hava enjoyed a read of this invitation," ghe said merrily, and laughed again, " What, you won't go, will you 7 " said Andrew, with some surprise. " Why, of course I will," she said, kissing big serious face. " The letter simply means this : • Yes, come ; we feel a bit shy of the girl you've talked so much about, and would almost rather she wasn't coming ; but let her come and we'll meet her at the station.' Why, Andrew, you should see the note 3 I used to get at school ; gome- of them wanted as much interpretation as if they had been written in a foreign language, and before you could understand them you had to study, not a language, but the indivdual who wrote — Mb character, his bringing up, his education or want of it, his surroundings, and sometimes his provocation. I tell you, many r little bit of fun I've had out of notes, and when one came from the parents of some sweet, lovable, bright boy- it made a great difference, you know," she enid, looking shyly at Andrew, who, reading her pure kind thoughts, folded her in his arms. Only those who have experienced it can realise how bard it was for Vera and Andrew to see their home broken vp — their beautiful and happy home, where angry words, dull care, weary work, all vanished in an atmosphere of love. When would they again sit down, as they had done so often, at their own little table* and by their own fireside 7 When would they even meet again 7 All these thoughts occurred to both of them, bat found no expression by either. Each tried to make the other less sorrowful by assuming an -air of .cheerfulness and hopefulness. At Ghristchurch station they patted. Little did the passengers know of the anguish of that parting. A few passers-by took a second look at the young man who kissed his young lady right on the public platform ! With a burning kiss on her pale lips, Andrew whispered : " Keep a good heart, darlicg, God will take care of you. Vera, love, who knows the good you'll do my father and mother and Betsy. It's just what they need, the company of a gentle, refined, and spiritual girl like my Vera." She blushed, and smiled through her tears, but the bell rings again, th< whistle goes, and she ia off. God be good to her. It was about the middle of October. Some pine logs sparkled and crackled, sending a ruddy glow all over the Birohwood kitchen. The tea was laid with extra care, the kettle simmered, and a savoury smell oam« from the oven. Mrs Hav/orth sat knitting, but was sofidgetty that shewai continually dropping stitches. Betsy seemed excited. Mv Haworth alone seemed at his ease as he read, as usual, his daily paper. " The man should have been here 10 minutes ago," Mrs Haworth observed } " but whist a minute, I hear them now." " Confound the thing 1 " broke in Mr Hawortb, " the train's two hours late to-night. I hope the man will have the sense to throw the oover over the beast." " Hoo is it late the nicht ? " asked Mrs Haworth in surprise. " Some blessed races at Ohristchurch. Just like this Government, putting honest folks to all this bother for the sake of some gambling fools and horsey men," replied her worthy husband. " Betsy," said Mrs Howarth, •• pit the kettle aff, and open the oven door, no tae let it burn." •• You're not going to wait on the g'g, are ye 7 Hoots,- woman 1 Let us have our tea in peace and quietness, theirs will keep till they oome." As the gigr rattled along Vera wondered to herself what sort of a welcome awaited her. "At any rate they sanctioned my coming," she thought, "and if they are cfvil I won't mind a cold reoeption. I must try and look at things from their point of view. I can't expect that because Andrew fell in love with me all his relations will do the same. At any rate, I'll try to be as agreeable as possible, and no doubt we'll get on all right. I wonder who Andrew is like— hie father or his mother 7 I wonder who he takes bis lovely eyes from 7 If it is his father, I do feel like Riving him a hug and a kiss, in spite of all his letters. 11l be glad to get there, anyway. I'm so tired, and — happy- thought !— bedtime will come and oome every night, and I can rest and dream of Andrew." The welcome was anything but cordial — if welcome it miglit b« called. " Good evening to yon," was Mr Haworfch* greeting. " And how did ye leave Andrew 7 " was Mrs Hawortb's firat inquiry. Bstcy took her portmanteau and said : " Ycur room's upstairs." Still there was something familiar in the voices which helped to mak« Vera feel at borne. The evening wore away almost in "oilence. At last the monotony wai broken by Mrs Haworth, who said : " It's oor bedtime, and we dinna lik< leaving ony lichts aboot; but I suppose you city folks sit up halt th« nicht." " Not at all," said Vera ; " I'll be delighted to go to bed. You know I'm quite a country girl now." " Humph 1 " was all the reply ; for the old folk would have it that Andrew had married a gaslight 'butterfly from the city, because Vera had been brought up in Ohristchuroh. After retiring, Vera was almost asleep when the conversation in the next; room rose so high that she could not but hoar what was said. " That's the third meal we've had eaten afi£ us the day," said Mr» Haworth. " The third I Who were the others ? " 11 Twa swaggers. It's a terrible tax." Vere's cheeks burned, and she almoat said aloud : " I must pay board somehow." " That cloak cost a pretty penny, I warrant ye. Pair Andrew." " A wedding present," smiled Vera to herself. " I wonder what the hale rig-out wad cost, shoes and bonnet and a. Oor laddie will be keepit with his nose to the grindstone if yon's the gowns she aye wears. One wad think she had married a laird by the style o' her." " Oh well," said Haworth, who was yielding to the influence of Morpheus, " what cannot be cured must be endured. She's here now." Poor Vera. Where 1b now the philosophical mood in which, she 80 easily tossed aside the rudely- wonded invitation 7 She covered her face and sobbed as i£ her heart would break. To feel that she had become such an unwelcome burden was humiliating indeed. How her independent spirit was stung to the quick. She had forced herself upon th«m for weeks, perhaps months, and there seemed no hope of being able to repay them. What had she done that she should thus have to suffer ? She could not now sleep. She rose, pnt on a waim wrap, and went to the window. There was no blind. She gently drew back the curtains and looked out on the moonlit scene. How exquisitely beautiful it was ! For a moment her troubles were forgotten in the glory of this heavenly eight. Beneath her window lay a woodland valley, and here and there from under the white olematis which deoked the trees sparkled and glea«M|

the crystal waters of a natural creek. Under the window the white orchard trees formed an archway over tbe path, almost hidden by violets, cowslip, primroses, and daisies in wild profusion. Within ths very reach of her hand, on the twig of a lilac tree, buug a bird's nest, in which were the eggs "of a goldfinch. Over all the moon shed its soft rays of silvery light, and now and then fantastic shadows were cast under the trees as the fleecy clouds floated over tho silent beautiful landscape. "Oh, Father, 1 she cried, 11 Thou who has painted tuch a ficane canst surely provide for a lonely g>rl like me " She sat and gazed on the beautiful scene till her boul was filled -- With a kindred quiet, and sleep returned with its heavecly balm— sleep that Knits up the ravelled sleeve of care ; The dcn'h of each day's life, sore Labours hath ; Balm of hurt mind*, great Nature's second course, Chief nourisher iv life's feast. After breakfast next; morning Vera would gladly have helped with the aaily round of duties, but Mrs Haworlh would not bear of it. "Gang your am gate, my lady, till dinner time; we'll be done the sooner " "HowYWish she would call rae Vera," thought the disappointed girl as ihe turned away with a sigh. " What a disgusted look she gave this poor Innccent dress, a»d the very one that Andrew used to like so much, too. Why. surely it's plain enough ; I selected it because the whole thing only cost 30a." Acd so it was plain, but the exquisite fit of the ample morning robe and the delicate colour that suited so well with Vera s golden hair made it look to the farmer's wife like a thing too good for Sunday. Left to her own pleasure, Vera soon found her way down to the beautiful valley. She followed the windieg path, and it led to a little foot-bridge which was evidently seldom used, the path being quite green, and the fern and momi were evidently claiming tho bridge for their own. It; was an exquisite spot. Broadleaf, fuchsias, pines, acd miras were robed in garlands of white clematis, for it was near the end of October. Along the fctream the banks sloped gently, till the forget-me-nots dipped their leaves into the shallow water : the pink flowers of tbe fuchsia spangled the moesy stones, and everywhere the moss and ferns formed a rich green carpet in this fairy woodland bower. Here on an old fallen tree Vera sat down, and as she drank in the beauties around her she thought to hereelr, " Why should I fret and pine away the three months I must stay here when I am privileged to enjoy such wondrous splendour? " Suddenly a thought struck her : " I fcnow what I shall do ; I'll turn this rare old summer forest into a fairy Btudy. That mossy stone shall be my desk, the fallen tree my chair, tho birds will brlrg me distant news, and the trees will bear me company. Yes, I'll write here, and who knows but I may thus make enough to pay for the trouble I cause ; and it will at least calm my mind and occupy my thoughts, Which will Indeed be a blessicg to me in my present state."