rather neglected member of his own family. "But does all this make you feel better and happier yourself, dear?" she added in a half-hesitating tone, not quite sure how her cousin might take the question.

"Oh, Violet," answered Henrietta, with enthusiasm, "I cannot tell you the difference it makes to me! When I look back upon the restless, idle, discontented creature I used to be, I can hardly believe I am the same person. Don't you remember how I used to complain if there was no excitement going on? and how I used to sit about all day and do nothing but read novels? Now the days hardly seem long enough for all I have to do, and then-I cannot talk about it; but I do feel so different in myself, I feel that life is worth having now-don't I look different, Violet?"

Violet looked at her cousin scrutinisingly for a minute or two, and then answered.

"Yes, Harry, your face does look quite different; it has lost that sort of discontented weary look it used to have."

"Because I have lost the feeling," replied Henrietta. She then went on to explain the duties and privileges of the confraternity to which she belonged, and ended by getting Violet to promise to go with her to St Vincent's Church the next day, which was Sunday.

On Sunday morning Edith declared her desire to go to St Vincent's too, for Violet had repeated to her a good deal of Henrietta's conversation.

"If you go there, I advise you to come out as soon as matins, as they call them, are over," said Julia, “or you will be tired to death, besides running a risk of being crushed."

"I will run the risk for once," said Edith, "for my curiosity is excited, though I tell you beforehand, Henrietta, that I never can like any church half or a quarter so well as our own."

"We shall see,” replied Henrietta, with a smile.

St Vincent's was not a large church, and it was so crowded that, long before the service began, Edith made up her mind that she should be obliged to follow Julia's advice, and escape at the end of the morning prayers. In the meantime, she looked round her. The general tone of the beautiful building satisfied her eye, and it pleased her to find that every detail was perfect in its way. Presently the dense mass of people stood up, the organ began to play, and the choir entered. From that moment Edith was like one entranced, and quite forgot her resolution to go out after "Matins,” but stayed till the end of the High Celebration.

When the long service was over, the three girls left the church in grave silence.

"How did you like the service, Edith?" said Henrietta at last.

"I never heard anything so lovely in all my life," replied Edith. "Will you let me go to church with you every Sunday, Henrietta? I had no idea our service could be so lovely, and what an organ! I could listen to it for ever; some notes were just like the most exquisite boy's voice-the sort of music one dreams of, but never expects to hear on this side heaven."

"You mean the vox humana stop, it is lovely," replied Henrietta; "and I am sure, dear Edith, I will call for you as often as you like if you are determined to be a

hermit and live in lodgings. And how did you like it, Violet?" she went on, turning to the cousin whose opinion she valued most. Edith had never been a favourite with the Cheveleys.

"Of course, it is very beautiful," answered Violet, slowly and thoughtfully. "Too beautiful it seemed to me; it is an immense treat just now and then, but somehow I don't think I should like it always; it would be something like living on sweets. I think the sort of service we have at home must be more healthy, all the people joining together like one family to praise God; that seems to me the perfection of earthly worship, on a summer's day, when the doors are open, and the fresh air and sunshine come in, and we can hear the larks singing outside, it feels to me as though we were joining with all creation in praising God."

"But we cannot get the fresh air and the sunshine and the birds to help us in London,” replied Henrietta, who looked disappointed.

"That is true," answered Violet; "and I think such a service as yours must be very good sometimes,-it certainly lifts you out of yourself. The hymns were lovely. I should like to get the book of tunes for our choir at home. I am afraid the village voices will sound rather rough after St Vincent's."

"If we had Uncle Frederick as a preacher and the St Vincent services, why, I think that would be simply perfection," said Edith; "but such music as that is almost sermon enough."

CHAPTER VII.

AT LAST.

THE Cheveley family was divided in its opinion of Edith's scheme. Mrs Cheveley and Julia thought it a mad idea, and rather improper into the bargain.

"I never heard of such a thing as a girl wanting to take up a profession when she can live comfortably at home," said Mrs Cheveley. "If she had to support herself it would be very commendable, but as things are I really wonder, Caroline, that you can give in to her as you do."

"I am quite persuaded that it will be for her good and happiness," replied Mrs Melville, who, when she had once made up her mind to a thing, was not easily persuaded to go back. "And Frederick quite approves."

"Frederick always had queer ideas," said Mrs Cheveley; "but if you are determined to let the girl have her own way, why not leave her with us? it would certainly be far more proper. Edith is too young to live alone in lodgings."

"It is very kind of you to make such a suggestion," answered Mrs Melville, "but we have well considered the matter, and have decided that Edith will do better by herself; you know she is peculiar."

"Most peculiar," ejaculated Mrs Cheveley.

"But she is not in the least giddy," continued Mrs

Melville, without noticing the interruption; "I could trust her anywhere, and I have perfect confidence in Jane. But of course I shall think it very kind of you to go and see her now and then."

Henrietta quite backed up Edith, and said she thought every girl would be happier for having a definite occupation.

Mr Cheveley did not express any decided opinion, but, on the whole, seemed favourable.

So, in spite of her sister's remonstrances, Mrs Melville called on Mrs Rivers on Monday morning; she wished for a private interview with Mrs Rivers before deciding anything.

Mrs Rivers was prepared for the call by a note from her son, and she was sitting in state in the drawingroom when her visitor arrived.

Before the two had been together five minutes, Mrs Melville had quite made up her mind that she could not place Edith in better hands. She was a woman of strong impulses, which she had learned, as a rule, to check, but she felt drawn to this mild-eyed widow as she had been to her son.

Mrs Rivers had dreaded the interview, and had never believed that a lady in Mrs Melville's position would allow her daughter to lodge over a small bookseller's shop, but she very soon found herself talking quite freely, and without the least embarrassment, to the country lady; for Mrs Melville, like her brother, had the rare charm of manner that at once puts strangers at their ease, and draws out their confidence.

It was years since Mrs Rivers had talked familiarly to a lady of education and refinement, and the inter