told me why she had that pretty dress on; but now I know, because the picture has told me all.

I have had other presents, but I am too tired to write more; and Mamma has just been in to say that the day is so warm and lovely that the doctor has given me leave to go out in the close carriage after my luncheon, and Mamma entreated me not to write any more; and as writing does make me cough, I must finish, but not before I say how glad I am I may go out, even in the close carriage, for I have not been out for weeks, and I am to drive down with dear Mamma to Aunt Trevor's, where Baby is, and look at her through the window.

CHAPTER IV.

I AM seventeen to-day. How different this day is to my last birth-day! Then I was ill and weary, and shut up, and I remember thinking that perhaps I should die, and not live; but now I am strong and happy, and feel as though I had never been ill at all, and had never known what it was to be sad and sorrowful. No! perhaps this is saying too much, for I don't know that one can forget feelings one has once had; they hang about one like chains, and sometimes flash like a jet of lightning through one's mind. But I am not as I was then. All last summer I was weak and weary, and pale and ghost-like; and in the autumn I went with Mamma and Papa, and Baby and Herbert, to Scotland, and we travelled about the highlands, and we stayed at one place and then at another till the mountain-tops were white with snow, and the leaves began to change their colour, and beautiful glorious Scotland turned cold and freezy. So we left it; and Papa took a house at Brighton until Christmas, and I was out driving and riding and walking many hours each day, and gave up all study, and was completely idle. Then when we came home at Christmas, we had, as usual, a house full; and even then I was not very strong, so that I could not do as I had done before my illness. But now I really feel quite well again, and Edithwho has returned to us, (for she was sent away when I took the whooping-cough, because she has never had it,)—and I are now to set to work in real earnest, and have masters, and make the most of the year left to us, before we both come out as grown-up young ladies. We have got a finishing governess, as she called herself when Mamma engaged her; she only came last week, so I hardly know whether I shall like her or not yet, but I am sure by her manner she thinks me very deficient in accomplishments, and so unlike her last pupils, Lady Theresa and Lady Lucy French. I don't care about being accomplished, and it is well for me that I don't, for I never shall be-that is to say, I shall never play in that grand dashing way that most young ladies now play in, and shall never be able to chatter French and Italian and

German, and know all about geology and mineralogy and astronomy, and hundreds of other things; because, according to Madame Leduc, the Ladies Theresa and Lucy French did all this, and much more.

I hope I shall be able to sing; and I think I shall, and I have promised my own mother to take every pains to be able to play enough to accompany myself; and I intend to speak French, and French alone, to Madame, and to read it every day with her. I think I know more of German than she does, and I am looking forward with real pleasure to reading Schiller's plays with Edgar Lee, (that's our clergyman's eldest son,) for Edgar is a capital German scholar, and has given me many lessons before now. He is coming to be here, in the house, and read with Herbert all this summer. Herbert has left school, and goes to Oxford in the autumn, and Papa wants him to do well, and not disgrace himself, and so he has asked Edgar to come and read with him for the next few months. Edgar has just taken his degree; he is very clever, and he is very kind to us two girls. He has known us all our lives-by us, I mean Edith and me.

I don't think Charley quite liked the plan of his reading German with us, and I heard him say to Mother, 'Is this a wise arrangement? Cannot Madame teach Lena and Edith German? Will it not take Edgar away from Herbert? I thought it was to read with Herbert he was coming, and not to teach the girls.' He was so grave when he said this, and more which I did not hear, as he spoke in a very low voice, and looked so distressed and annoyed; but Mother only smiled, and, laying her hand on his shoulder, said, 'Trust me, Charley dear, and don't be afraid; it is all right. But,' she added, 'I will tell you more another time.' I fancied, by a look she gave to Charley, and then towards Edith and me, that she did not care that we should hear what she had to say; but I suspect Charley thinks that his darling Edith-his sister that he is so proud of, and that he loves so much-will run away with Edgar's heart. But I need not write my fancies down.

I generally record what presents have been given to me on my birthday, and I have had more than usual to-day; but they have all been jewelry, in one shape or other. I suppose this tells me that people consider me grown up. Dearest Mother gave me a beautiful set of pink topaz, which she has had re-set on purpose. I said all my presents were jewelry. I ought to have said all but one, and that one was from Charley, and it is a piece of carved ivory, a group of sacred figures, our Saviour hanging on the cross, and three weeping figures with hands clasped and eyes upraised at its foot. When he gave it me he said, 'Lena, life has two sides; it is not all sunshine, and gladness, and mirth of heart. There is the unseen world and the Christian inner life, and not only the world we do see, and the outward life of the senses. (or something to that effect.) This carved ivory group will speak to you of the Saviour and the sinner-the Comforter, and the need we have of comfort; of Him who said, "I am the Life of the world."

This, and more, he said to me; words that will live in my memory, but not in these pages, for I can't write them down. O Charley what should I do without you? And yet I must soon do without you, for you are expecting daily to be ordered abroad.

I hear Papa calling me, so I suppose I am wanted down-stairs, for there is to be a large croquet party this afternoon, and Papa said he should want me to tell the gardeners how to place the hoops and the seats, &c., and so I must go.

It is a fortnight since I wrote in this book-a fortnight since my birth-day-and a very happy time it has been. Our studies have been carried on in real earnest, under Madame's tuition. I am learning to manage my voice, and to gain more power over it. Papa and Mamma and Herbert were quite delighted last night with some glees sung by Edith and Charley and me. It was so pleasant to hear them praise us, and to feel that they really did quite enjoy our music; and Papa has a very good ear, and fastidious taste in music.

Charley is still here; he has had no order yet to join his regiment, though it may come any day. He has been reading to us some of Shakespeare's plays-Hamlet, and Macbeth, and Julius Cæsar. I don't mean that he has been the sole reader, for Herbert and Edgar Lee, and even Papa, have all been taking parts; and this reading has been a great treat to us girls, for neither of us had heard much of Shakespeare before. We have begun our German reading also, and Charley is doing it with us. He says now that he thinks we shall get on very well with Edgar Lee, though at first he did not like it. But Madame's German is so bad, that he sees it would not do for her to teach us.

But I must not go on writing, and thinking, and musing over these things, but be off to the school-room, for Madame is waiting to give me a singing-lesson, and she can't bear me to be late.

Christmas Day. Seven months have flown away since I last wrote in this book. I may well say flown, for we have been so busy, and have had so much to do each day as it came and went, that the months have just gone, and here we are at Christmas. Herbert came home from

Oxford two days ago; he says he likes his college life immensely, and he has heaps of friends; and as for work, why, he declares that's nothing to what he had to do at school. But then he added, 'It was never my way to overwork myself; I mean to take it easy.' 'Quite right, my boy, too-quite right. No need for you to overwork; there is plenty for you as my son,' said dear Papa, whose admiration for Herbert seems to increase every time he comes home. And certainly he is a very nicelooking fellow, with his tall manly figure, and bright brown hair, and laughing eyes, and clear brown skin; and then he has such a manner, so self-reliant and so easy, and withal a way as though everyone must of necessity give up to him. I asked him once if he wrote that line, 'I am monarch of all I survey, my right there is none to dispute.' 'No, saucy one,' he replied, I only practise it.' And sure enough he does.

But then he really has been spoiled. Why, Papa calls him to his face, 'You magnificent boy! you splendid-looking fellow!' &c. I know I should not mind being praised up in this way, but I never am. The only other creature in the house that gets an undue share of praise is our sweet small sister Agnes. Oh! she is a very darling, and so lovely. To-day, when she came running in after luncheon, with her golden hair floating about her shoulders, and a tiny wreath of red berries and thornless leaves, which Nurse had made for her for Christmas, round her dear little head, her eyes and cheeks bright with joy and excitement, she looked the veriest little beauty. Everyone said how lovely she looks, and everyone must needs kiss her and pet her. And she is a pet! Oh! how Mother loves her. She could not make up her mind to part from her this autumn and go with us to the Lakes, so she stayed at home with Agnes. She said she greatly preferred the quiet; but I believe she would have enjoyed the Lakes as much as any of us if she could have taken Agnes; but the doctor said she must not take her, because ever since the measles the little pet has had a delicate chest, and the doctor was afraid of the damp, which he declares is a necessary evil of the Lake district. But it was not so whilst we were there. We only had three days of settled rain, and we were there a month; and those three days made the waterfalls so beautiful, that we rejoiced at them. I could go into raptures, if I chose, over the beauty of the Lakes, especially Keswick; but I don't choose, so I shall say nothing, except that it was a most enchanting time. Our party was Papa, Herbert, Charley, Edith, and me. Charley's regiment was not ordered abroad, but was sent to Chatham, and so we have seen him constantly; and the month he spent with us at the Lakes was a month's absence on sick leave, for he had been very ailing. He is quite well again now, and came yesterday to be with us at Christmas-time, as he always has been. Edith is certainly the gayest and most gleeful creature I know, and Charley the most cheerful and unchangeable. I wonder Herbert does not like Edith better than he does; he never seems to think much of her, and he thinks and talks so much about other girls not to be compared to her in any way. The other day I asked him if he did not think her excessively pretty, and he laughed at me so, and said, 'Excessively pretty! I should think not. Why, she has always got a broad grin on her face, and she is as fat as a dairy-maid!' So much for the criticisms of those used to you every day. I dare say he would speak of me much in the same tone to Edith, if she ever ventured to make any remark of me to him, and with about as much truth, for Edith is not fat, but only round and fair; and then she has the most sunny smile-ever ready to come, but not the least grin. Now there is Miss Scott, a girl Herbert raves about, and one whom I can't endure,—with her grandeur and her fine talk about operas and theatres, and this singer and that dancer, and her love for Rotten Row and extreme fashion. He calls her beautiful, and I call her simply odious, so it shews how materially we differ from

each other in our likings. Charley told me this morning, after one of my fights with Herbert-for we often have fights about our different views, both of people and things-that I must try and meet him half way, and not always seem to think that there is no truth in what he says, and no beauty in what he admires. But really he does say such odd things, and admire such queer people, that I shall have hard work even to do this; but I must try, as I wish him to care for me, and not to be always quarreling with me. I don't know if he loves me or not; he never shows it, but I see more and more that he has been spoiled.

I have not much more time for writing, because Edith and Charley and I are going to walk across the park and on to Uncle Trevor's, and then back to the church, by five o'clock, as Mr. Lee is going to have the evening service then, (no sermon, but just the prayers,) and it is to be chanted, and he wants us to be present. It is the first time that the choir has tried chanting the psalms.

I could not write more yesterday, because Edith came and told me it was time to start for our walk. We had a charming walk, in spite of the cold. The clear frosty air made one feel so fresh, and the light frozen snow that covered everything was marvellously beautiful. We had a cup of tea and a little chat with Aunt and Uncle Trevor, and then we started off for the church. I was so glad and so surprised to see dearest Mother there when we entered; and the chanting was very well done, and showed clearly what pains Mr. and Mrs. Lee had taken with it. Edgar and Willie and Annie and Clara Lee all sang, and had been practising both for the psalms and the anthem, and we joined heartily in every part that we could.

I have several things to get ready for the Christmas tree which we are to have this evening; and all the children of the neighbourhood are coming to enjoy it and a dance, which is to follow when the presents from off the tree have all been distributed. And here comes our early tea, and my room will be full of visitors in a minute or two; so farewell to you, my book, for the present.

(To be continued.)

CAMPANELLA.

CHAPTER VII.

THE church clock had not yet struck nine on the Monday morning, when Campanella made her curtsey to Miss Charteris, in Mr. Dykes's drawing-room. The chairs in that room were stiff and straight; they had belonged to Mr. Dykes's mother; the table was coverless, and shiny; the chintz was whitey, and faded. There was a dull hard look about