And so, my dear Anna, you really leave London to-morrow! "By the ten oclock train," added an eager voice, "and I shant get to Dornton until nearly five. Father will go with me to Paddington, and then I shall be alone all the way. My very first jour

Wordsworth. "And so, my dear Anna, you really leave London to-morrow " "By the ten o'clock train," added an eager voice, "and I shan't get to Dornton until nearly five. Father will go with me to Paddington, and then I shall be alone all the way. My very first journey by myself-and such a long one "

"What's in a name?"-Shakespeare. Mrs James White stood at her cottage door casting anxious glances up at the sky, and down the hill towards the village. If it were fine the rector's wife had promised to come and see the baby, "and certainly," thought Mrs White, shading her eyes with her hand, "you might call it fine-for April." There were sharp showers now and then, to be sure, but the sun shone between whiles, and sudden rays darted through her little window strong enough to light up the whole room.

"So there ain't no idea, then, of takin' Miss Susan?" "No, indeed My mistress will have enough on her hands as it is, what with the journey, and poor Master Freddie such a care an' all, an' so helpless. I don't deny I've a sinkin' myself when I think of it; but if it's to do the poor child good, I'm not the one to stand in his way." "Where's she to stay, then, while you're all away?" "With an aunt of Missis' at Ramsgate. An old lady by what I hear."

The whole house in London was dull and gloomy, its lofty rooms and staircases were filled with a sort of misty twilight all day, and the sun very seldom looked in at its windows. Ruth Lorimer thought, however, that the very dullest room of all was the nursery, in which she had to pass so much of her time.

Penelope Hawthorne sat in the school-room window-seat at Easney Vicarage, one afternoon, looking very gravely out at the garden. She had sat there for some time, with her hands in her lap and a little troubled frown on her forehead, and anyone who knew her well would have guessed at once that she was thinking over a "plan."

It was a mild spring evening, and Mrs Frank Darvell was toiling slowly up Whiteleaf Hill on her way back from market. She had walked every step of the way there to sell her ducklings, and now the basket on her arm was heavy with the weight of various small grocery packets.

"It's as black as ink," said Dennis, lifting one of the kittens out of its warm bed in the hay; "there's not a single white hair upon it." "Madam's never had a quite black one before, has she?" said his sister Maisie, who knelt beside him, before the cat and her family. It was a snug and cosy home Madam had chosen for her children, in a dark corner of the hayloft, where she had hollowed out a sort of nest in the side of a truss of hay. Here she might well have fancied herself quite secure from discovery, for it was so dim and shadowy in the loft that it needed sharp eyes to see anything but...