window, looking at the starry sky-so much of it, at least, as she could see between the top of the wall and the roof of her window. She was not crying, as another girl might, but just wearying her heart out to know what it all meant. She felt in a maze to which she had not the clue, and where every path was wrong, every trial abortive. She could understand nothing; neither why she had offended her aunt because she had spoken the truth, defended Dora, and thought for the poor messenger-all of which were simple duties; nor did she know why there should have been such a bitter under-current about such a simple thing as a dinner-party; nor why Dora-dear Dora, whom she so much loved-was so reluctant to say what she wished. And then why had she been told to hold her tongue about the young man they had met to-day? And who was he? As only "Cragfoot had been mentioned downstairs when this mysterious dinner was discussed, and as Patricia had not the smallest idea who lived there, the name had told her nothing. Had she heard of Colonel or Mrs. Lowe, the chances are she would have made some kind of exclamation which would have caused a considerable draft on Dora's inventive faculties, and have necessitated a profuse coinage of her current change-white lies. As it was, it was all a mystery; and Patricia's whole nature abhorred mysteries.

This initiation of hers into a certain phase of life, unhappily only too common, was as painful as physical suffering; and the confusion it was beginning to create in her mind was working infinite sorrow, and might in time—who knows?—work as infinite mischief. For the most honest nature in the world, the most pure and crystalline, if humble, loving, and loyal, may be warped to doubt by the very virtues that are its charm. Patricia knew what she had been taught in the early days of her life, and her lessons and their teacher were dear; but how could she maintain her honesty, her candour, her sincerity, in a household where these qualities were not only unpopular but condemned as sins?—a household, too, so far superior to herself in training and wisdom. Was she really the only one right and all the rest wrong? Or was there another virtue beside those which she had been taught, and which must at times be supreme-the virtue of seeing wrongdoing without remonstrance, consenting with sinners, and sliding down the incline with her superiors? Humility or truth? Obedience or sincerity? She knew what she would have said at Barsands, and what her uncle would have taught her there; but things which were clear then were confused now, and she seemed to know less as she learnt more.

Sitting there, with her rich brown hair falling over her bare shoulders, and her eyes fixed on the stars with a childish yearning for her uncle's spirit entangled somewhere among them to come down to her this night and tell her what she ought to do, she heard her door

softly opened, and Dora, in a dainty wrapper of blue and white and lace and ribbon, supplemented with an ermine cape-for she knew the temperature of Patricia's fireless room-came gliding in. Her hair too was about her neck, very picturesque and pretty. But what a small amount it took to build up that magnificent structure of braided coils! thought Patricia. Her own great heavy masses, which were three times as thick and long as Dora's, could not be made to do half the work.

Coming up to her in her graceful, gliding way, Dora said softly: "Dear thing, I want to help you."

Patricia's arms were round her in a moment, and the light of her love brightened her eyes to their old radiance.

"You are my good angel," she said enthusiastically. "I do not think I could go on living here without you, Dora!"

"But you really must let me teach you how to live here peaceably and happily, with me or without me," said Dora; and then began her lisping lecture on the propriety of absolute silence and submission to all Mrs. Hamley's words and ways. There was no good in opposing her, she said. Mrs. Hamley, dear thing, was mistress, and would always be mistress to the end of her life; and not one of them, from Mr. Hamley downward, dare contradict her or hold their own against her.

"Remember," she gave as her last exordium, "never defend yourself or any one else, however unjust she may be. It is only a mood, and will pass if you do not notice it; for she is really a kind-hearted woman at bottom, though such a difficult temper to deal with. Never take anything on yourself without her express permission, if it is only the pulling down of a blind or the suggesting more coals on the fire. You may very likely be scolded for not pulling down the blind if the sun comes into the room, and for not putting more coals on the fire if it goes out or gets too low, but if you are you must just take it quietly, and pretend that you were to blame. If you do things of your own accord, you are sure to catch it; and it only fidgets her to see any one move without her permission. So, why do it? If she says black is white, good gracious, say it is white too! What does it signify? If you say, no, it is black, you make her angry and have a row; and where is the good of that? In fact, you must just efface yourself, dear; and whatever you think say nothing, but make your mind apparently the shadow of hers."

"Dora!" cried Patricia with unfeigned horror. "Such a life as that! I would not lead it if I had to die! I will do all I can to study and please my aunt-it is my duty-but I will not listen to her injustice when she is unjust without protesting; and I will never say what is not true for her pleasure."

"Then you will never get on at Abbey Holme," said Dora.

"No, I hope I never shall, if this is the only way in which I can,' answered Patricia stoutly. The doctrine of sham and untruth, brought nakedly before her, broke through the cobweb meshes of her doubts and set her soul clear and free. "I would rather that my aunt disliked me even more than she does, than that I should despise myself."

"Why can't you leave yourself alone?" asked Dora, unconsciously touching one of the deepest problems of spiritual life. "Do what you ought to do-what it is only wise to do-and never mind whether it makes you despise yourself or not. We have to live for others, not for ourselves."

"And we have to live to God and Truth before all," said Patricia, looking up.

The fair face heroically suppressed a smile. Patricia was so funny! She might be a Methodist parson talking like that; and to another girl too! No kudos even to be got by it!

"Well, you must do as you think best, of course; say all you think and make Mrs. Hamley very angry, and yourself most horribly uncomfortable; but I hope you will not quarrel with me, dear, because I am a cowardly little thing and care only to keep peace," Dora said coaxingly.

"I, Dora? In the first place, I never quarrel with any one. I don't think I ever had a quarrel in my life, not even with Miss Pritchard, whom I did not like; and least of all could I with you! Dear, clever, gentle, good Dora! I think you are an angel! Why, I offended my aunt to-night because I could not bear to hear her so unjust to you-you, of all people!"

"Which you need not have done," said Dora a little coolly. "I am used to that kind of thing from her and do not mind it. Hard words break no bones," she said lightly; "and your little brush made it only all the worse for me."

"What an unlucky girl I am!" sighed Patricia.

"No, you are not a bit unlucky, but you are very self-willed," said Dora, with an admirable appearance of not knowing that she was saying anything that would offend the most susceptible.

"No! no! don't call me that, Dora! I am only trying to live as I have been taught," cried Patricia, really pained.

"You may call it what you like; I call it self-will. When you are advised again and again, as I have advised you, how to conduct yourself here for every body's peace, and you will make yourself and every one else miserable by going your own way, what is that but self-will, I should like to know? At all events, if you determine to follow out your high and mighty line of conscience and righteousness,” with a little grimace, "you must expect to suffer. Martyrdom may not be pleasant, but it is what you go in for; so you must accept it patiently, remember that!"

"I try to be patient in every way," said Patricia, looking at her with an agitated face.

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Yes, it is all very well for you to say that you try to be this, and try to be that, but it is we who suffer," said Dora, shrugging her shoulders. "You make us all-Mr. Hamley, poor dear Mrs. Hamley, and poor dear me too-as wretched as yourself, simply because you will not have a little common-sense and less egotism. But now I shall say no more. I have said all I want to say, and all you are to remember; but please, dear," passing the tips of her fingers playfully down the girl's upturned face as she stood beside her preparing to go, while Patricia still sat by the window listening to her, "do remember it. And now, good-night." She stooped her pretty little fresh face and kissed her affectionately. "You old goosie !" she said, as Patricia gave her a great hug and called her a darling; and laughing, glided to the door. "Oh!" she then said quite indifferently, just as her hand was on the lock, turning back and speaking in the tone of a person who has been struck by a sudden thought; "if a note comes for you to-morrow morning, dear, will you give it unopened to me?" "A note for me to be given to you?" said Patricia, in her wellknown tone of frank amazement.

Dora's fair face flushed with annoyance.

"She is positively maddening!" she said to herself. dear," aloud, quite tranquilly.

"Please,

"But why should it come to me, and not to you direct ?" asked Patricia, looking at her with her bewildered look.

Dora glided back to her old place by the uncurtained window. "Now don't ask me any questions, there's a dear," she said caressingly. "It is just my little secret, and of no consequence to any one but myself. You will get me into dreadful trouble if you do not help me; that is all I can tell you; and you will do no one any harm if you do. But you will help me, will you not, darling ?" She laid her small hand on the girl's shoulder, and looked down into the noble, troubled face pleadingly.

"I do not mind, of course, giving you a note that does not belong to me though it may be addressed to me," said Patricia, distressed, disturbed, uncertain. "But if Mr. Hamley or my aunt sees it, and asks who is my correspondent, what am I to say? You see I have no letters; and there is no one to write to me excepting Gordon; and I cannot hear from him yet for two months or more. So they will be sure to ask; and then what can I say?"

"Say? Anything! That it is from Miss Biggs, the dressmaker.” "I cannot do that," Patricia answered gravely. "I have never told a falsehood in my life, and even for you, Dora, much as I love you and much as I would do for you, I cannot begin now!"

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'And how do you expect to get through the world, if you will not

help a friend with a harmless little white lie like this?" said Dora, indignantly. "And you, who make so much fuss about your loving people so much, and your loyalty to them! It is perfect nonsense, Patricia, setting yourself up as so much better than any one else, and pretending that you are too good to do the things we all have to do!"

"Don't be angry, Dora," said Patricia humbly. "There are very few things that I feel sure of now-fewer, a great deal, than 'I did three months ago!-but this I do know, that it is mean and cowardly to tell falsehoods for any purpose whatever. Even if I ought to hold my tongue, as you say I should, and let people think I agree with them when I do not, I am sure I ought not to say what is not true." "Then you will betray me?-for the note will come!" said Dora, very pale.

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No, I will not betray you, Dora. I could not do that at any cost. But neither will I tell a falsehood to screen you, if there is anything you do not want known."

"Well, leave it to me, you tiresome girl!" said Dora after a moment's pause, and speaking more ill-temperedly than Patricia had imagined she could speak. "I shall know better than to trust to your friendship for me another time; but as I did trust you this time you must not tell of me, and I will do the best I can. You have promised you will not betray me?" earnestly.

"I will not," the girl answered, as if she had been taking an oath. "Then I will trust to my own brains for the rest," laughed Dora; her good-humour returned with the scheme that had occurred to her, and, nodding to Patricia gaily, she slid out of the room and nearly ran against Bignold as she was leaving Mrs. Hamley for the night. If she had, that virtuous female would have told of her next day, and Aunt Hamley would have administered a lecture on collusion which would have had more words in it than meaning.

This night it was, when, safely locked in her own room, Dora indemnified herself for the suppressions and vexations of the day by crying a little when she got to bed, and saying half aloud, shaken with fear and repentance, "How I wish I had refused and never done it! It was too bad of him to make me, when he knew what was at stake!"