fear of hurting the baby; for Bob, like many bachelors, did not know how tough a thing a baby is, after all that may be said about its softness and delicacy.

At last Nat Gibbs turned his wife's attention to the stranger. Now, Mat, guess who this is? You don't remember him?"

How should she? She was born nearly two years after Bob left Littlethorpe, and of course was obliged to give up guessing as a bad job. When it came out that this was her own Uncle Bob, who had gone away to London years ago, and of whom she had heard so many stories, she was obliged to put down the child for surprise, and to take breath; and in another instant she had her arms round his neck, and he found a tear or two of hers on his cheek; for the sight of him brought up the thought of her father and mother, and Matty could never think of them without crying: she was rather a nervous, excitable woman. In a short time she recovered, and was in excellent spirits, stirring herself to get dinner in a superior style, as Bob was to be honoured as a relation, as a guest, and as a Londoner, who was of course accustomed to have everything quite fashionable. At last dinner was on the table; as nice an Irish stew as one could wish to eat; and every one did justice to it, especially Bob, who was hungry after his walk, and with the novelty of his situation. He praised the dish beyond anything attainable in a London eating-house; and thereby made his niece, Mrs Gibbs, his firm friend for life, for she prided herself on her Irish stews. After dinner, the boys cleared away the plates and dishes, and went into the kitchen to wash them; for their mother had found means to make them useful. She herself swept up the hearth, cleared the room of all litters, apologised to Uncle Bob, for the twentieth time, for "not having cleaned herself, and for doing all these things before him, because the woman, Mrs Bennett, was gone to Grantham, to bring home things for to-morrow-it being Christmas-day." Her husband told her of his invitation to the Bateses and the Greenburys for that evening. At first Mrs Gibbs' countenance was clouded, and she "wondered he had not remembered that Mother Bennett was away, and that there was nothing but bacon and cheese in the house." But when her husband said that Uncle Bob's unexpected return had made him forget everything but doing him honour, she brightened again, and said, Well, never mind now, Nat: it can't be helped. And I daresay they wont mind taking things in the rough, though it is Christmas eve, and Littlethorpe Feast too; and, please the pigs! we will have a good game at snap-dragon for the children. I can manage that: I have plenty of plums."

And then Nat got up and said he must go and buy some tobacco for the evening; and Martha, with a wistful face, said, "You wont stop long at the Lion, Nat?"

66 No, no, child; not with Bob Parsons here. How could you think I should?" She went out of the room to shut the house

door after him, and when she came back to her place by the fire, Bob thought she looked anxious and serious; so he asked her what made her look so grave: and his niece laughed, and said Nothing! did she look grave?"

They began to talk of their family, and all the Littlethorpe people. At last Bob said, "So they are all dead, are they? And did my sister Polly leave no children? She was married, I know, to old Greenbury the schoolmaster's nephew."

"Yes," said his niece; "to the brother of the Greenbury you saw to-day, and who is coming here to-night.” "Well, had they no children?"

"Yes, three; but they are all dead."
"Did they all die young?" asked Bob.
"No, no.

"How so?"

It would have been a good thing if they had."

"Why, it's a sad story. But perhaps you ought to know it, as you are so near a relation, and for the sake of her who has been so good through all the business. But before I begin, you must take another glass of my elder wine. And now, boys, you may run down to the Bateses, and ask them to lend us a pack of cards for to-night, and their large tin for the snap-dragon. Put on your comforter, Bobby, dear. He's named after you, uncle, you see. Now, be off."

Thus left alone with her uncle, Mrs Gibbs began. Aunt Polly's eldest girls, as you know, died before they were grown up; but Jenny the youngest lived till about eighteen months ago. She was a sweet, pretty, little delicate thing as a child, and her father's pet; and her mother was afraid she would be spoiled, and somehow got into a habit of finding fault with her, and constantly nagging at her. Jenny and I were of the same age, and great cronies, let alone being first cousins. We both went to school together, and the mistress liked us both, but Jenny was her favourite; partly because she was so gentle and good, and partly because she was Aunt Polly's child; for Aunt Polly and Miss Greenbury were very great friends."

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Here Bob interrupted-" Do you mean Esther Greenbury?" Yes; daughter of old Greenbury you used to write to before he died."

Why, you don't mean to say that Esther Greenbury never got married?"

"I do though. But that was her own fault. To my certain knowledge she might have had my Nat over and over again if she liked; besides others I could mention. Well, as I was saying about Jenny Greenbury—her name was Greenbury too, you know she was a beautiful child to be sure; and when she was eighteen, she was the prettiest girl in the place. But she was not strong, and her mother used to have words with her about her not doing the house-work, and reading of books at every odd moment; for she was much too fond of reading, and an excellent

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scholar was Jenny. The young men about were all after her; but I don't know how it was, she often told me there wasn't one of them she could fancy for a husband; though, I must say, some of them were very respectable indeed, and rather above us. However, she sent them all off with a civil word. So, while I and the rest of the Littlethorpe girls were going about to fairs and feasts, and trying to get sweethearts, Jenny was spending all her spare time at Esther Greenbury's, reading and doing needlework; for she had made up her mind to be a dressmaker, as she was not strong enough for other work. And she was very handy with her needle, I promise you, and made such tasty caps and bonnets. Poor girl! I'll show you some of her work tomorrow. Poor Jenny! she's done her work now. Well, things went on very well for some time, and she was getting a nice little connexion, and was likely to get a good business, when one day one of the great ladies up at the castle-the new family who had just come-I think it was Lady Merivale herself, sent for Jenny to go and work for her at the castle. How pleased Jenny was when she got the message to be sure! Now she was sure to have plenty of custom from the farmers' wives, and other people about, when it was known that she had actually made a gown for Lady Merivale. I walked with her up to the castle the first day she went, and I could not help thinking how very pretty she looked; for she had dressed herself better than usual, and had got such a sweet colour in her cheeks with the walk and the excitement together. I felt sure my lady would be pleased with her. Just as we went in at the park gate, we met a fine handsome gentleman on horseback. I wondered who he

was; and soon after we met cousin Tom, who was working at the castle then, and he told us that the gentleman was the Honourable Mr Henry Merivale, Lord Merivale's second son, and that he was a very kind, generous, free-spoken, affable young man, and a great favourite with all the world.

"Well, Jenny gave great satisfaction to my lady, and spent most of her time up at the castle working. And she grew more and more beautiful, and was quite rosy and fat; and the young men came after her very much again, but she seemed to like them less than before. At last it got whispered about that it was no wonder Jenny Greenbury would have nothing to say to simple, plain country lads, when young Mr Henry at the castle was always watching opportunities of talking to her-going into the room where she was at work-meeting her in the park as she went and came-trying to make her accept presents of books and things. Every one began to look shy on Jenny, who, as I am told, got letters from Mr Merivale sometimes. You must understand her mother was a widow now, and ruled everything; and since her father's death, she seemed harder than ever upon the poor girl, and used to taunt her with what was said of her, and ask her 'why she would not marry when she

could?' and 'who did she think would have her now, after all the things that had been said?' 'What did she think would become of her?' And Jenny made answer once, and said she did not care what became of her. And I really do believe that was true; for her mother did not set about the right way of making her see the folly of caring for Mr Henry. Depend upon it, kind words and gentle dealing are the best in such cases. Many a girl has been driven into bad conduct by her mother's harsh treatment and crossness. This I'm quite sure of. If Mrs Greenbury had only been mild and kind to Jenny, matters would never have turned out as they did.

"The next hunting season the family came down here again; and this time Mrs Greenbury vowed Jenny should not go to work at the castle, and that, if she did, she might stay there, for she should not come home to her again.

"I will not dwell on the particulars of what is at best a melancholy tale. It is enough for me to say that Jenny was induced to elope, and to form some irregular kind of marriage, which would not stand in law. Poor Jenny! I was sure in my own mind that she had run away on account of her mother's unkind treatment. However, nothing was heard of her for many months; and what with Mrs Greenbury's being sorry for her unkindness to Jenny, and fearing that she drove her into harm-which was no use afterwards, you know, uncle-what with fretting about that, and fearing every day she should hear something dreadful about her daughter, she was taken ill, and died in about seven weeks. Esther Greenbury, who, God bless her! was always a help to the afflicted, stayed with her all her illness-neglected her school and all for Aunt Polly. I used to help her what I could; but I was wanted at home then, for father was ill. So Esther had a weary time of it; but she never complained, and was as gentle as a lamb with aunt, who got very peevish and cross-grained towards the last. But Esther contrived to make her feel like a mother to poor lost Jenny. And she told us both, just before she died, that if ever we saw her child any more, we were to tell her that she forgave her from her soul. This was some comfort to the poor girl afterwards.

"As we heard of the nature of Jenny's marriage, if so it might be called, with Mr Merivale, we all knew how it would end; and Esther prepared for the consequences. Well, Jenny was at length deserted; and Esther one day went and brought her home, along with a little child.”

"And what has become of them?" inquired Bob eagerly.

"Why, Esther Greenbury kept them with her always, and treated them like her own flesh and blood. Her school had got on again while Jenny was away; but it fell off terribly when it was known that she harboured such a person in her house. The parents all thought it was a shocking example to set to their children, and so Esther was obliged to take in needlework; and

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Jenny worked too as long as she was able; and as it was but little that two women like them wanted, they contrived to live. But when Jenny's health began to give way, which it did in less than a year, matters became very hard with them; but Esther, in her sweet-tempered, cheerful way, never minded it for herself-only for poor Jenny and the child. She tended and nursed her carefully till the last; and the clergyman used to go and talk to Jenny, and pray with her every day, and she died quite calm and happy. I wish we may all make as good an ending!"

"And the child?" asked Bob.

"Bless its little heart!" exclaimed Mrs Gibbs, "that's as well as can be. Esther keeps it now; and her school is getting on again, and she manages pretty well. I know she has had offers of money for the child from its father, who wrote a letter to Esther after Jenny was dead. In it he said he had gone all wrong ever since she had left him, and now he never should be happy any more; which is all nonsense, I'll be bound. People who can do as he did are not so easily made sorry for it. And then to think to make amends by giving money to Esther for that little angel of a child, who is a great deal too good for his. I can't bear to think it has such a good-for-nothing father. Esther, of course, wont take any assistance from him. She wrote back word to say that as long as she lived she would keep the child; but that, after her death, he might settle money on it if he pleased; and I think something of this sort has been done. But I do not like to ask Esther, as she is always very reserved on that subject."

"Shall I see Esther Greenbury to-night?" inquired Bob, after a pause.

No, not to-night. She has gone to Grantham to buy things for to-morrow. To-morrow evening being Christmas-day, and poor little Jenny's birthday, Esther has a merrymaking of all her scholars at her large schoolroom, which is the same one her old father used to teach in years ago."

Bob remembered that schoolroom very well. He asked whether Esther looked old. Mrs Gibbs said that she did not look at all old for her age, which was seven-and-forty; but that she supposed Bob would see a great difference. Bob supposed so too; and began to alter the fresh, somewhat bouncing girl of seventeen into a sober, staid, middle-aged female. But in this work he did not succeed to his liking; so he gave it up, and turned to pondering on her conduct through life, and her noble unpretending goodness to his suffering niece. But he could not help wondering why she had never married: she seemed just the sort of person for every man to fall in love with who had any sense or feeling. Esther Greenbury an old maid! He could scarcely believe it. Yet he was assured that such was the case. He made up his mind, if Esther seemed glad to see him, and was