"Turned, looked, smiled, and took poor
little trembling, crying me into her dear
arms. Was I like what you fancied me,
Hildred?"

''Not one whit. I expected to find a fretful,
spoilt girl; helpless, and rather heartless."

"Why did you come; if you did not think
you should love me?"

"Because you were my mother's child. I
knew you were in trouble, and thought you
might want my strong arm to protect you."

"You did not know about there being no
will?"

"No; but I expected it might be so when
I heard how sudden my uncle's death was.
If I had found you a rich, well-befriended
young lady, Millie, I should not have stayed
with you long—But, now, no more pleasant
twilight talk. We must have candles, shut
out the beautiful night and go right earnestly
to business."

"Business! how funny, we two girls."

"Very funny, but no farce with me,
child."

And so it seemed. The room shut up
and lights brought, Hildred settled herself
at the table, and was soon absorbed
in looking over sundry old papers;
some her uncle's, some relating entirely to
Millie's affairs. A lawyer was coming tomorrow;
but Hildred would not be content
ignorantly and passively to leave all in his
hands; although Millie advised her to do so,
saying that surely no one would cheat two
orphan girls. Hildred's dark look of bitter
pride came back as she answered that she
did not know; that, at any rate, she preferred
knowing a little into the matter
herself. So she sat for hours puzzling out
very complicated and irregular accounts, and
Millie stayed by her, giving her what assistance
she could, till Hildred marked the pale
weariness on her face, and sent her to bed.

It was long past midnight when Hildred
herself finally raised her head with the
triumphant look of one who has mastered a
difficulty. She locked up the now methodically
arranged papers; paced the room some
time, looking rather wild with her hair
pushed back from her flushed face, and her
dark brows knit in eager thought; and then
went up-stairs; knelt—no nightly form with
her—by the window looking up at the stars,
and prayed fervently for two most dear to
her; undressed in the dark, and laid herself
down softly beside her sleeping sister.

CHAPTER II.

NEXT morning, as they sat at breakfast, the
sisters were gayer than they had yet been.
Millie's mood was sobered and chastened by
remembrance that one who had loved her
well lay in the churchyard; yet her face was
full of a tender hope that, in its calmness,
seemed more like certainty—content. Hildred's
gaiety was somewhat forced, and her
manner rather absent; her face fixed by resolute
purpose, which her keen eyes, looking onward,
appeared to see already fulfilling. Millie was
relieved from a great dread when her sister
told her, that she need not yet leave the
house she so much loved; that they might
stay in it, at least, till after Christmas—only
paying rent for living in what Millie had
thought her own property, which was
strange. In that time, Hildred said, though
Christmas was not far off, much might happen,
and they could settle plans for their future.
Hildred had many schemes for herself—
glancing all of them at a possibility, but
falling off from it shily, and then growing
confused in all but one central idea, that she
would be independent, and would make herself
famous; for Millie she had but one plan,
fixed and constant.

The day was one of those serenely beautiful
days we often get in late autumn: the sky
cloudless, the air fresh yet soft, the whole
earth dazzlingly bright-vestured.

"A holiday morning, Millie!" Hildred exclaimed,
as they stood in the sun on the door-step.
"Let us be children now: this afternoon
I shall put on my woman of business
and of the world aspect. You shall take me
one of your favourite rambles. We will go
blackberrying, if any berries are left for us."

Hildred and Millie went out. together and
spent the whole bright morning in aimless
wandering, and gay hopeful talk. The
expression of Hildred's face softened, and
grew sweeter with every hour she spent with
Millie; she did not often startle the girl now
by the vehemence of her demonstrations of
affection, or by the abruptness of her manners,
as she had constantly done at first; but still
Millie's fear returned a little now and then.

Millie was very pretty: so Hildred told
her as they sat on the hill-side, overlooking
their house and the valley beneath it. She
watched the colour deepen on the soft, clear
cheek, and the beautiful light sparkle in the
dove-like eyes that generally shone with a
meek, calm lustre. When Millie answered
simply: "I am very glad!" her sister knew
of what she was glad, and of whom she
thought most. Then, Hildred's passionate
heart beat high, full of love, longing, unrest,
jealousy; and her eager eyes looked out into
her own future somewhat fiercely.

Lying on the turf beside Millie, she
stretched out her right arm appealingly, not
heeding that she threw her hand violently
upon a short tuft of prickly gorse, she was
thinking too absorbedly to feel the pain. It
was not till Millie exclaimed—"O Hildred!
your poor hand!" that her attention was
drawn to it. Hildred's were beautiful, though
not very small hands; well-formed, and as
white as Millie's own. She was sorry the
right hand was scratched, for it looked ugly,
and she took delight in having everything belonging
to her admirable—not that she cared
for admiration, save such as innocent Millie's;