without knowing it, in the moulding of that
head. It spoke to them of her judgment, just
as her smile spoke of her heart. And it was
clothed, not disguised, with a tight-fitting
covering of satin-smooth hair, seamed with
silver threads, which last had made their
appearance—too soon if we would speak of fitting
time—not too soon if we would only speak of
beauty. No nut-brown tresses, nor golden
curls, ever more enriched the head that wore
them than did those gleaming braids passing
the richly-coloured cheeks. Her broad brow,
full of grace, shone with the goodness and power
of all the thoughts that continually passed
behind it. Her soft hazel eyes seemed black
sometimes, from intensity of expression, as well
as the shadows that lay above them from their
strong dark settings. They were mirthful,
tender, or solemn, those eyes, and they always
carried sunshine to whatever side they turned.
As for her mouth, it began and finished the
perfection of her face. It was so firm and yet so
indulgent, so sweet, and yet so grave; people
listened, and looked at it, and were won. Its
smile was so good, and said so much, that its word
could scarce be better, or say more. But when
the two came forth together it were little
wonder if a hard heart should give way in sheer
surprise. The habitual expression of her face
was a serene look of happy content, as if she
had a secret joy somewhere, which would
not consent to be altogether hidden—under
which dwelt a strong presence of mental
resources, quietly basking in the sunshine of
her temper, ready to spring at a moment's
notice into vigorous action.

Dr. Hazeldean sat opposite to his wife, and
he also read his letters. He was a pleasant-
looking fresh-complexioned gentleman, with a
face betraying high intellectual culture, as well
as a peculiar generosity and benevolence of
disposition. If one wanted to know his opinion of
his wife, one might just watch him looking at
her across the table. "The heart of her husband
trusteth in her," said that look. "She will
render him good and not evil all the days of her
life."

"Will you read this, John, and tell me what
you think?" said Mrs. Hazeldean. And she
handed him her letter from the Mother
Augustine.

The doctor read and shook his head.

"It is a scheme worthy of Mary and of you,"
he said; "and if only you and Mary were to be
the actors in carrying it out, I should feel no
doubt that you would make it nourish to
perfection. But, considering the style of the
people at the castle, I don't think such a poor
girl would be happy in the position."

"I can see that danger myself," said Mrs.
Hazeldean; " yet Mary seems so anxious about
the matter; and if the girl is now in the keeping
of Lady Humphrey, who was Judith Blake,
why I would rather see her out of it, if I
happened to be her friend."

"Vhich you will be, I foresee, if she comes
here," said the doctor.

"Which I will be, please God!" said Mrs.
Hazeldean. And the doctor took up his paper
with a smile, and his wife poured out the tea.

The next morning, when Doctor Hazeldean
was seated in his gig, his wife appeared, in her
bonnet, in the doorway.

"I am going to pay a visit at the castle,"
she said, "and I want you to leave me a bit up
the glen, on my way."

And so a bit up the glen she was left. The
mountains opened before her as she walked,
after that, and the village and the bay lay
behind and far beneath her. The glen unfolded its
windings, and the river that ran meeting her,
which she had seen playing with the sedges in
the lower ground, grew noisy and angry and
picked a quarrel with all the stones in its way.
Purple hills loomed high in the distance, looking
through their wreaths of silver mist. Autumn
woods lay in the lap of the hills, and stood round
about the grey chimneys of the castle.

Mrs. Hazeldean paid many visits on her way,
as she went along; for all things knew her on
this road, and the humblest creature felt no awe
at her approach. Even the hen-mothers pecking
about, the doors of the thatched cottages just
blinked her a bright look and did not hurry
themselves to drive their broods out of her way.
The children lifted their heads and laughed right
in her face. The very cows looked up from
their grazing and approved of her as she passed
by. Many a brightening face was thrust to
greet her through open doorways; many a
welcome awaited her within, from expectant sick
people beyond the thresholds; many a homely
chair was dusted that she might rest.

There was not an interest of these poor people
that was too little for her sympathy. Were
they sick or were they in trouble, here was
their friend. Not alone the sister of the late
baronet, who had been their master, but a sister
of their own; never impatient at their ignorance,
never scornful of their poverty, never angry at
their mistakes, never weary of their complaints;
not sweeping in, like Lady Helen, in a grand
dress, breaking her feathers and her temper
against the low lintels of their doors, overwhelming
them to confusion with a few words of
condescension, chucking the frightened children
under the chin—maybe giving a present like an
alms, and sweeping out again; more like the old
lady, her dead mother, but warmer, less stately,
more familiar.

Most like of all to Miss Mary and Sir Archie,
though with an amount of experience, and a keen
insight into all the little needs of humble lives
which even they did not possess in the same
degree. These two had been her children, her
disciples; though not a great many years
younger than herself.

Just of late there had been many a wild
torrent of grief which Mrs. Hazeldean had been
called upon to stem. Though the horrors that
were abroad in the country had not actually set
foot upon the glens, yet scarce a cottager of the
mountains but had some friend, elsewhere, who
was in prison or in torture, who had been