To do Mr. Copley justice, he left the prison very well provided and furnished.  The store closet and pantry were stocked; the house put in tolerable order, and two maids were taken down.  The old gardener had disappeared, but Dolly declared she would keep the flowers in order herself.  So for a number of weeks things really went not ill with them at Brierley.  Dolly did keep the flowers in order, and she did a great many other things; the chief of which, however, was attending to her mother.  How exquisitely she did this it would take a great deal of detail to tell.  It was shown, or felt rather, for a great part, in very small particulars.  Not only in taking care of her mother’s wardrobe and toilette, like the most skilled of waiting-maids; not only in ordering and providing her meals like the most dainty of housekeepers; not only in tireless reading aloud of papers and books, whatever could be got to interest Mrs. Copley; these were part, but besides these there were a thousand little touches a day given to Mrs. Copley’s comfort, that even herself hardly took any note of.  Dolly’s countenance never was seen to fall in her mother’s presence, nor her spirits perceived to flag.  She was like the flowers with which she filled the house and dressed the table; sweet and fresh and cheery and lovely.  And so ministering, and so ministered to, I cannot say that the life of the mother and daughter was other than a happy one.  If Mrs. Copley was sensible of a grievous want here and there, which made her nervous and irritable whenever she thought of it, the tenderness of Dolly’s soothing and the contagion of Dolly’s peace were irresistible; and if Dolly had a gnawing subject of care, which hurt and pricked and stung her perpetually, a cloud of fear darkening over her, from the shadow of which she could not get free; yet the loving care to ward off both the pain and the fear from her mother, helped at least to keep her own heart fresh and strong to bear whatever was coming.

So in their little room, at their table, or about the flowers in the garden, or sitting in the honeysuckle porch reading, the mother and daughter were always together, and the days of late summer and then of autumn went by sweetly enough.  And when the last roses were gone and the honeysuckle vines had ceased to send forth their breath of fragrance, and leaves turned sear, and the winds blew harsh from the sea, Dolly and Mrs. Copley made themselves all the snugger in the cottage; and knitting and reading was carried on in the glow of a good fire that filled all their little room with brightness.  They were ready for winter; and winter when it came did not chill them; the household life was warm and busy.  All this while they had the stir of frequent visits from Mr. Copley, and between whiles the expectation of them.  They were never long; he came and went, Mrs. Copley said, like a gust of wind, with a rush and a whistle and a roar, and then was gone, leaving you to feel how still it was.  However, these gusts of wind brought a great deal of refreshment.  Mr. Copley always came with his hands full of papers; always had the last London or Edinburgh Quarterly, and generally some other book or books for his wife and daughter to delight themselves withal.  And though Dolly was not always satisfied with her father’s appearance, yet on the whole he gave her no new or increased occasion for anxiety.

So the autumn and winter went not ill away.  The cottage had no visitors.  It was at some distance from the village, and in the village there was hardly anybody that would have held himself entitled to visit there.  The doctor was an old bachelor.  The rector took no account of the two stranger ladies whom now and then his eye roved over in service time.  Truly they were not often to be seen in his church, for the distance was too far for Mrs. Copley to walk, unless in exceptionally good days; when the weather and the footing and her own state of body and mind were in rare harmony over the undertaking.  There was nobody else to take notice of them, and nobody did take notice of them; and in process of time it came to pass, not unnaturally, that Mrs. Copley began to get tired of living alone.  For though it is extremely pleasant to be quiet, yet it remains true that man was made a social animal; and if he is in a healthy condition he craves contact with his fellows.  As the winter wore away, some impression of this sort seemed to force itself upon Mrs. Copley.

“I wonder what your father is dreaming of!” she said one day, when she had sat for some time looking at Dolly, who was drawing.  “He seems to think it quite natural that you should live down here at this cottage, year in and year out, like a toad in a hole; with no more life or society.  We might as well be shut up in a nunnery, only then there would be more of us.  I never heard of a nunnery with only two nuns.”

“Are you getting tired of it, mother?”

“Tired! ­that isn’t the word.  I think I am growing stupid, and gradually losing my wits.”

“We have not been a bit stupid this winter, mother, dear.”

“We haven’t seen anybody.”

“The family are soon coming to Brierley House, Mrs. Jersey says.  I daresay you will see somebody then.”

“I don’t believe we shall.  The English don’t like strangers, I tell you, Dolly, unless they come recommended by something or other; ­and there is nothing to recommend us.”

Mrs. Copley uttered this last sentence with such a dismal sort of realisation, that Dolly laughed out.

“You are too modest, mother.  I do not believe things are as bad as that.”

“You will see,” said her mother.  “And I hope you will stop going to see the housekeeper then.”

“I do not know why I should,” said Dolly quietly.

However, this question began to occupy her; not the question of her visiting Mrs. Jersey or of any one else visiting them; but this prolonged living alone to which her mother and she seemed to be condemned.  It was not good, and it was not right; and Dolly saw that it was beginning to work unfavourably upon Mrs. Copley’s health and spirits.  But London? and a lodging-house?  That would be worse yet; and for a house to themselves in London Dolly did not believe the means were at hand.

Lately, things had been less promising.  Mr. Copley seemed to be not so ready with his money; and he did not look well.  Yes, he was well, he said when she asked him; nevertheless, her anxious eye read the old signs.  She had not noticed them during the winter, or but slightly and rarely.  Whether Mr. Copley had been making a vigorous effort to be as good as his word and spare Dolly pain; whether his sense of character had asserted itself, whether he had been so successful in speculation or play that he did not need opiates and could do without irritants; I do not know.  There had been an interval.  Now, Dolly began to be conscious again of the loss of freshness, the undue flush, the weak eyes, the unsteady mouth, the uneven gait.  A stranger as yet might have passed it all by without notice; Dolly knew the change from her father’s former quick, confident movements, iron nerves and muscular activity.  And what was almost worse than all to her, among indications of his being entered on a downward course, she noticed that now he avoided her eye; looked at her, but preferred not meeting her look.  I cannot tell how dreadful this was to Dolly.  She had been always accustomed, until lately, to respect her father and to see him respected; to look at him as holding his place among men with much more than the average of influence and power; he was apt to do what he wished to do, and also to make other men do it.  He was recognised as a leader in all parties and plans in which he took any share; Mr. Copley’s word was quoted and Mr. Copley’s lead was followed; and as is the case with all such men, his confidence in himself had been one of his sources of power and means of success.  Dolly had been all her life accustomed to this as the natural and normal condition of things.  Now she saw that her father had ceased to respect himself.  The agony this revelation brought to Mr. Copley’s loyal little daughter, it is impossible to tell.  She felt it almost unbearable, shrank from it, would have closed her eyes to it; but Dolly was one of those whose vision is not clouded but rather made more keen by affection; and she failed to see nothing that was before her.

The ministry Dolly applied to this new old trouble was of the most exquisite kind.  Without making it obtrusive, she bestowed upon her father a sort of service the like of which not all the interest of courts can obtain for their kings.  She was tender of him, with a tenderness that came like the touch of a soft summer wind; coming and going, and coming again.  It calls for no answer or return; only it is there with its blessing, comforting tired nerves and soothing ruffled spirits.  Mr. Copley hardly knew what Dolly was doing; hardly knew that it was Dolly; when now it was a gentle touch on his arm, leading him to the tea-table, and now a specially prepared cup, and Dolly bringing it, and standing before him smiling and tasting it, looking at him over it.  And Mr. Copley certainly thought at such times that a prettier vision was not to be seen in the whole United Kingdom.  Another time she would perch herself upon his knee and stroke back his hair from his temples, with fingers so delicate it was like the touch of a fairy; and then sometimes she would lay her head caressingly down on his shoulder; and though at such times Dolly could willingly have broken her heart in weeping, she let Mr. Copley see nothing but smiles, and suffered scarce so much as a stray sigh to come to his ear.

“Have you seen anything of the great people?” he asked one evening, when Dolly had moved his sudden admiration.

“Do you mean the people at the House?” his wife said.  “No, of course.  Don’t you know, Mr. Copley, you must be great yourself to have the great look at you.”

“Humph!  There are different ways of being great.  I shouldn’t wonder, now, if you could show Lady Brierley as much as Lady Brierley could show you ­in some ways.”

“What extravagant notions you do have, Frank,” said his wife.  “You are so much of an American, you forget everybody around you is English.”

“Lady Brierley has been only a little while come home,” said Dolly.  “We need not discuss her yet.”

And so speaking, Dolly brought out the Bible.  The reading with her mother had become a regular thing now, greatly helpful to Mrs. Copley’s good rest, Dolly believed, both by day and night; and latterly when he had been at the cottage her father had not run away when she brought her book.  Alone with her mother, Dolly had long since added prayer to the reading; not yet in her father’s presence.  Her heart beat a little, it cost an effort; all the same Dolly knew it must now be done.  With a grave little face she brought out her Bible, laid it on the table, and opened it at the fifth chapter of Matthew.

“Here comes our domestic chaplain!” said her father.  Dolly looked up at him and smiled.

“Then of course you would not interfere with anything the chaplain does?” she said.

“Only not preach,” said her father in the same tone.  “I don’t approve of any but licensed preaching.  And that one need not hear unless one has a mind to.”

“I let the Bible do the preaching, generally,” said Dolly.  “But we do pray, father.”

“Who?” said Mr. Copley quickly.  “Your mother and you?  Everybody prays, I hope, now and then.”

“We do it now, and then too, father.  Or rather, I do it now, after reading.”

Mr. Copley made no reply; and Dolly went on, feeling that the way was open to her, if it were also a little difficult to tread.  She read part of the chapter, feeling every word through and through.  Alas, alas, alas!  The “poor in spirit,” the “pure in heart,” the “meek,” ­where were these? and what had their blessing to do with the ears to which she was reading?  The “persecuted for righteousness’ sake,” ­how she knew her father and mother would lay that off upon the martyrs of olden time, with whom and their way of life, they thought, the present time has nothing to do! and so, with the persecuted dismiss the meek and the pure.  The blessings referred certainly to a peculiar set of persons; no one is called on in these days to endure persecution.  Dolly knew how they would escape applying what they heard to themselves; and she knew, with her heart full, what they were missing thereby.  She went on, feeling every word so thrillingly that it was no wonder they came from her lips with a very peculiar and moving utterance; that is the way with words that are spoken from the heart; and although indeed the lovely sentences might have passed by her hearers, as trite or unintelligible or obsolete, the inflexions of Dolly’s voice caught the hearts of both parents and stirred them involuntarily with an answering thrill.  She did not know it; she did know that they were very still and listening; and after the reading was done, though she trembled a little, her own feelings were so roused that it was not very difficult for Dolly to kneel down by the table and pray.

But she had only scanty opportunities of working upon her father in this or in any way; Mr. Copley’s visits to Brierley, always short, began now to be more and more infrequent.

As weeks went on and the spring slipped by, another thing was unmistakable about these visits; Mr. Copley brought less money with him.  Through the autumn and winter, the needs of the little household had been indifferently well supplied.  Dolly had paid her servants and had money for her butcher and grocer.  Now this was no longer always the case.  Mr. Copley came sometimes with empty pockets and a very thin pocket-book; he had forgotten, he said; or, he would make it all right next time.  Which Dolly found out he never did.  Her servants’ wages began to get in arrear, and Dolly herself consequently into anxious perplexity.  She had, she knew, a little private stock of her own, gained by her likenesses and other drawings; but like a wise little woman as she was, Dolly resolved she would not touch it unless she came to extremity.  But what should she do?  Just one thing she was clear upon; she would not run in debt; she would not have what she could not pay for.  She paid off one servant and dismissed her.  This could not happen without the knowledge of Mrs. Copley.

“But however are you going to manage? the latter asked in much concern.

“Honestly, mother.  Oh, and nicely too.  You will see.  I must be a poor thing if I could not keep these little rooms in order.”

“And make beds? and set tables? and wash dishes?”

“I like to set tables.  And what is it to wash two cups and spoons?  And if I make the beds, we shall have them comfortable.”

“Jane certainly had her own ideas about making beds, and they were different from mine,” said Mrs. Copley.  “But I hate to have you, Dolly.  It will make your hands red and rough.”

“Nothing does that for my hands, luckily, mother, dear.  Don’t you mind.  We shall get on nicely.”

“But what’s the matter? haven’t you got money enough?”

“Mother, I won’t have servants that I cannot pay punctually.”

“Don’t your father give you money to pay them?”

“He gave me money enough to pay part; so I pay part, and send the other part away,” said Dolly gaily.

“I hope he has not got into speculation again,” said Mrs. Copley.  “I can’t think what he busies himself about in London.”

This subject Dolly changed as fast as she could.  She feared something worse than speculation.  Whether it were cards, or dice, or betting, or more business-like forms of the vice, however, the legitimate consequences were not slow to come; the supply of money for the little household down at Brierley became like the driblets of a stream which has been led off from its proper bed by a side channel; only a few trickling drops instead of the full, natural current.  Dolly could not get from her father the means to pay the wages of her remaining servant.  This was towards the beginning of summer.

Dolly pondered now very seriously what she should do.  The lack of a housemaid she had made up quite comfortably with her own two busy hands; Mrs. Copley at least had been in particular comfort, whenever she did not get a fit of fretting on Dolly’s account; and Dolly herself had been happy, though unquestionably the said hands had been very busy.  Now what lay before her was another thing.  She could not consult her mother, and there was nobody else to consult; she must even make up her mind as to the line of duty the best way she might; and however the difficulty and even the impossibility of doing without anybody stared her in the face, it was constantly met by the greater impossibility of taking what she could not pay for.  Dolly made up her mind on the negative view of the case; what she could being not clear, only what she could not.  She would dismiss her remaining servant, and do the cooking herself.  It would be only for two.  And perhaps, she thought, this step would go further to bring her father to his senses than any other step she could take.

Dolly, however, went wisely to work.  Quite alone in the house she and her mother could not be.  She went to her friend Mrs. Jersey and talked the matter over with her; and through her got a little girl, a small farmer’s daughter, to come and do the rough work.  She let her mother know as little as possible about the matter; she took some of her own little stock and paid off the cook, representing to her mother no more than that she had exchanged the one helpmeet for the other.  But poor Dolly found presently that she did not know how to cook.  How should she?

“What’s become of all our good bread?” said Mrs. Copley, a day or two after the change.  “And, Dolly, I don’t know what you call this, but if it is meant for hash, it is a mistake.”

Dolly heard in awed silence; and when dinner and breakfast had seen repeated animadversions of the like kind, she made up her mind again and took her measures.  She went to her friend Mrs. Jersey, and asked her to teach her to make bread.

“To make bread!” the good housekeeper repeated in astonishment.  “You, Miss Dolly?  Can that be necessary?”

“Mother cannot eat poor bread,” said Dolly simply.  “And there is nobody but me to make it.  I think I can learn, Mrs. Jersey; cannot I?”

The tears stood in the good woman’s eyes.  “But, my dear Miss Dolly,” she began anxiously, “this is a serious matter.  You do not look very strong.  Who does the rest of the cooking?  Pardon me for being so bold to ask; but I am concerned about you.”

Therewith Dolly’s own eyes became moist; however, it would never do to take that tone; so she shook off the feeling, and confessed she was the sole cook in her mother’s establishment, and that for her mother’s well-doing it was quite needful that what she eat should be good and palatable.  And Dolly declared she would like to know how to do things, and be independent.

“You’ve got the realest sort of independence,” said the housekeeper.  “Well, my dear, come, and I’ll teach you all you want to know.”

There followed now a series of visits to the House, in which Mrs. Jersey thoroughly fulfilled her promise.  In the kind housekeeper’s room Dolly learned not only to make bread and biscuit, and everything else that can be concocted of flour, but she was taught how to cook a bit of beefsteak, how to broil a chicken, how to make omelettes and salads and a number of delicate French dishes; stews and soups and ragoûts and no end of comfortable things.  Dolly was in great earnest, therefore lost not a hint and never forgot a direction; she was quick and keen to learn; and Mrs. Jersey soon declared laughingly that she believed she was born to be a cook.

“And it goes great qualities to that, Miss Dolly,” she said.  “You needn’t take it as low praise.  There are people, no doubt, that are nothing but cooks; that’s the fault of something else, I always believe.  Whoever can be a real cook can be something better if he has a chance and a will.”

“It seems to me, it is just common sense, Mrs. Jersey.”

“I suppose you are not going to tell me that that grows on every bush?  Yes, common sense has a great deal to do, no doubt; but one must have another sort of sense; one must know when a thing is right; and one must be able to tell the moment of time when it is right, and then one must be decided and quick to take it then and not let it have the other moment which would make it all wrong.  Now, Miss Dolly, I see you know when to take off an omelette ­and yet you couldn’t tell me how you know.”

Dolly’s learning was indeed by practising with her own hands.  One day it happened that Lady Brierley had come into the housekeeper’s room to see about some arrangements she was making for Mrs. Jersey’s comfort.  While she was there, Dolly opened the door from an adjoining light closet, with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and her arms dusted with flour.  Seeing somebody whom she did not know, Dolly retreated, shutting the door after her.

“Whom have you got there, Mrs. Jersey?” said the lady, forgetting what she had come about.  “That girl is too handsome to be among the maids.”

“She’s not among the maids, my lady.  She is not in the house.  She only came to get some instruction from me, which I was very glad to give her?”

“Of course.  That is quite in your way.  But she does not belong in the village, I think?”

“No, my lady, nor hereabouts at all, properly.  She lives in Brierley Cottage; she and her mother; I believe the father is there now and by times, but they live alone mostly, and he is in London.  They have been much better off; and last year they went travelling all through Europe.  I thought I should never see them again; but here they are back, and have been for a year.”

“I think I have heard of them.  Are they poor?”

“I am much afraid so, my lady.”

“Would it do any good, Jersey, if I went there?”

“It would be a great kindness, my lady.  I think it might do good.”

The final result of all which was a visit.  It was now full summer; the season had come into its full bloom and luxuriance.  Roses were opening their sweet buds all around Brierley Cottage; the honeysuckles made the porch into an arbour; the garden was something of a wilderness, but a wilderness of lovely, old-fashioned things.  One warm afternoon, Dolly with a shears in her hand had gone out into the garden to cut off the full-blown roses, which to-morrow would shed their leaves; doing a little trimming by the way, both of rose-bushes and other things; the wildering of the garden had been so great.  And very busy she was, and enjoying it; “cutting in” here, and “cutting out” there, flinging the refuse shoots and twigs carelessly from her into the walk to be gathered up afterwards.  She was so busy she never heard the roll of carriage wheels, never heard them stop, nor the gate open; knew nothing, in fact, but the work she was busy with, till a slight sound on the gravel near by made her look round.  Then she saw at one glance the lady standing there in laces and feathers, the carriage waiting outside the gate, and the servants in attendance around it.  Dolly shook herself free of the roses and stepped forward, knowing very well who it must be.  A little fresh colour had been brought into her cheeks by her exercise and the interest in her work; a little extra flush came now, with the surprise of this apparition.  She was as lovely as one of her own rose-branches, and the wind had blown her hair about, which was always wayward, we know, giving perhaps to the great lady the impression of equal want of training.  But she was very lovely, and the visitor could not take her eyes off her.

“You are Miss ­Copley?” she said.  “I have heard Mrs. Jersey speak of you.”

“Mrs. Jersey is a very kind friend to me,” said Dolly.  “Will Lady Brierley walk in?”

Mrs. Jersey is her friend, thought the lady as she followed Dolly into the cottage.  Probably she is just of that level, and my coming is thrown away.  However, she went in.  The little cottage sitting-room was again something of a puzzle to her; it was not rich, but neither did it look like anything Mrs. Jersey would have contrived for her own accommodation.  Flowers filled the chimney and stood in vases or baskets; books lay on one table, on the other drawing materials; and simple as everything was, there was nevertheless in everything the evidence, negative as well as positive, that the tastes at home there were refined and delicate and cultivated.  It is difficult to tell just how the impression comes upon a stranger, but it came upon Lady Brierley before she had taken her seat.  Dolly too, the more she looked at her, puzzled her.  She had set down her basket of roses and thrown off her garden hat, and now opened the blinds which shaded the room too much, and took a chair near her visitor.  The girl’s manner, the lady saw, was extremely composed; she did not seem at all fluttered at the honour done her, and offered her attentions with a manner of simple courtesy which was graceful enough but perfectly cool.  So cool, that it rather excited Lady Brierley’s curiosity, who was accustomed to be a person of great importance wherever she went.  Her eye took in swiftly the neatness of the room, its plainness, and yet its expression of life and mental activity; the work and workbasket on the chair, the bunch of ferns and amaranthus in one vase, the roses in another, the violets on the table, the physiognomy of the books, which were not from the next circulating library, the drawing materials; and then came back to the figure seated before her, with the tossed, beautiful hair and the very delicate, spirited face; and it crossed Lady Brierley’s mind, if she had a daughter like that! ­with the advantages and bringing up she could have given her, what would she not have been!  And the next thought was, she was glad that her son was in Russia.  Dolly had opened the window and sat quietly down.  She knew her mother would not wish to be called.  Once, months ago, Dolly had a little hoped for this visit, and thought it might bring her a pleasant friend, or social acquaintance at least; now that so long time had passed since Lady Brierley’s return, with no sign of kindness from the great house, she had given up any such expectation; and so cared nothing about the visit.  Dolly’s mind was stayed elsewhere; she did not need Lady Brierley; and it was in part the beautiful, disengaged grace of her manner which drew the lady’s curiosity.

“I did not know Brierley Cottage was such a pretty place,” she began.

“It is quite comfortable,” said Dolly.  “Now in summer, when the flowers are out, I think it is very pretty.”

“You are fond of flowers.  I found you pruning your rose-bushes, were you not?”

“Yes,” said Dolly.  “The old man who used to attend to it has left me in the lurch since we went away.  If I did not trim them, they would go untrimmed.  They do go untrimmed, as it is.”

“Is there no skill required?”

“Oh yes,” said Dolly, her face wrinkling all up with fun; “but I have enough for that.  I have learned so much.  And pruning is very pretty work.  This is not just the time for it.”

“How can it be pretty?  I do not understand.”

“No, I suppose not,” said Dolly.  “But I think it is pretty to cut out the dead wood which is unsightly, and cut away the old wood which can be spared, leaving the best shoots for blossoming the next year.  And then the trimming in of overgrown bushes, so as to have neat, compact, graceful shrubs, instead of wild, awkward-growing things ­it is constant pleasure, for every touch tells; and the rose-bushes, I believe seem almost like intelligent creatures to me.”

“But you would not deal with intelligent creatures so?”

“The Lord does,” said Dolly quietly.

“What do you mean?” said the lady sharply.  “I do not understand your meaning.”

“I did not mean that all people were rose-bushes,” said Dolly, with again an exquisite gleam of amusement in her face.

“But will you not be so good as to explain?  What can you mean, by your former remark?”

“It is not a very deep meaning,” said Dolly with a little sigh.  “You know, Lady Brierley, the Bible likens the Lord’s people, Christians, to plants in the Lord’s garden; and the Lord is the husbandman; and where He sees that a plant is growing too rank and wild, He prunes it ­cuts it in ­that it may be thriftier and healthier and do its work better.”

“That’s a dreadful idea!  Where did you get it?”

“Christ said so,” Dolly answered, looking now in the face of her questioner.  “Is it a dreadful idea?  It does not seem so to me.  He is the husbandman.  And I would not like to be a useless branch.”

“You have been on the Continent lately?” Lady Brierley quitted the former subject.

“Yes; last year.”

“You went to my old lodging-house at Sorrento, I think I heard from Mrs. Jersey.  Did you find it comfortable?”

“Oh, delightful!” said Dolly with a breath which told much.  “Nothing could be nicer, or lovelier.”

“Then you enjoyed life in Italy?”

“Very much.  But indeed I enjoyed it everywhere.”

“What gave you so much pleasure?  I envy you.  Now I go all over Europe, and find nothing particular to hold me anywhere.  And I see by the way you speak that it was not so with you.”

“No,” said Dolly, half smiling.  “Europe was like a great, real fairyland to me.  I feel as if I had been travelling in fairyland.”

“Do indulge me and tell me how that was?  The novelty, perhaps.”

“Novelty is pleasant enough,” said Dolly, “but I do not think it was the novelty.  Rome was more fascinating the last week than it was the first.”

“Ah, Rome! there one never gets to the end of the novelties.”

“It was not that,” said Dolly shaking her head.  “I grew absolutely fond of the gladiator; and Raphael’s Michael conquering the dragon was much more beautiful to me the last time I saw it than ever it was before; and so of a thousand other things.  They seemed to grow into my heart.  So at Venice.  The palace of the doges ­I did not appreciate it at first.  It was only by degrees that I learned to appreciate it.”

“Your taste for art has been uncommonly cultivated!”

“No” said Dolly.  “I do not know anything about art.  Till this journey I had never seen much.”

“There is a little to see at Brierley,” said the lady of the house.  “I should like to show it to you.”

“I should like dearly to see it again,” said Dolly.  “Your ladyship is very kind.  Mrs. Jersey did show me the house once, when we first came here; and I was delighted with some of the pictures, and the old carvings.  It was all so unlike anything at home.”

“At home?” said Lady Brierley enquiringly.

“I mean, in America.”

“Novelty again,” said the lady, smiling, for she could not help liking Dolly.

“No,” said Dolly, “not that.  It was far more than that.  It was the real beauty, ­and then, it was the tokens of a family which had had power enough to write its history all along.  There was the power, and the history; and such a strange breath of other days.  There is nothing like that in America.’’

“Then we shall keep you in England?” said Lady Brierley still with a pleased smile.

“I do not know,” said Dolly; but her face clouded over and lost the brightness which had been in it a moment before.

“I see you would rather return,” said her visitor.  “Perhaps you have not been long enough here to feel at home with us?”

“I have been here for several years,” said Dolly.  “Ever since I was fifteen years old.”

“That is long enough to make friends.”

“I have not made friends,” said Dolly.  “My mother’s health has kept her at home ­and I have stayed with her.”

“But, my dear, you are just at an age when it is natural to want friends and to enjoy them.  In later life one learns to be sufficient to one’s self; but not at eighteen.  I am afraid Brierley must be sadly lonely to you.”

“Oh no,” said Dolly, with her sweet gleam of a smile, which went all over her face; “I am not lonesome.”

“Will you come and see me sometimes?”

“If I can.  Thank you, Lady Brierley.”

“You seem to me to be a good deal of a philosopher,” said the lady, who evidently still found Dolly a puzzle.  “Or is it rather an artist, that I should say?” ­glancing at the drawing-table ­“I know artists are very sufficient to themselves.”

“I am neither one nor the other,” said Dolly, laughing.

“You are not apathetic ­I can see that.  What is your secret, Miss Copley?”

“I beg your pardon ­what secret does your ladyship mean?”

“Your secret of content and self-reliance.  Pardon me ­but you excite my envy and curiosity at once.”

Dolly’s look went back to the fire.  “I have no secret,” she said gravely.  “I am not a philosopher.  I am afraid I am not always contented.  And yet I am content,” she added, “with whatever the Lord gives me.  I know it is good.”

Lady Brierley saw tears in the eyes, which were so singularly wise and innocent at once.  She was more and more interested, but would not follow Dolly’s last lead.  “What do you draw?” she asked, again turning her head towards the drawing materials.

“Whatever comes in my way,” said Dolly.  “Likenesses, sometimes; little bits of anything I like.”

Lady Brierley begged to be shown a specimen of the likenesses; and forthwith persuaded Dolly to come and make a picture of herself.  With which agreement the visit ended.

If she had come some months ago, thought Dolly as she looked after the retreating figure of her visitor, I should have liked it.  She might have been a friend, and a great help.  Now, I don’t think you can, my lady!