CHAPTER IV.

"Thou cam'st not to thy place by accident;
It is the very place God meant for thee."

-TRENCH.

HILLIS looked with a rather puzzled expression. round the tastefully furnished room. But," she began, "you don't seem

"Seem what?" asked Mrs. Overton, smiling.

"I was going to say," said Phillis, frankly, "that you don't seem like the farmers I have seen. You don't talk like them, and you know how to make everything so pretty."

The old lady sighed a little as she answered, “No, we are not just like them, Phillis. If my husband had not had a spendthrift grandfather, he would have been a squire now instead of a farmer. You see, we have come down in the world, though not through any fault of our own. My father was a gentleman, too, a partner in a London firm, but he lost all his money through the failure of a bank, and we had to earn our own living after that by teaching, or working, or anything else we could get to do. But I have been very happy ever since I married. The farm work is pleasant, and we have been very prosperous. Can you make butter, Phillis? I shall have to teach you."

"What fun!" said Phillis. "No, I can't do that, but mother taught me to do a little cooking. She said every girl ought to know something about that, and I liked it very much. Mother used to say I should make a first-rate cook some day."

'Well, you shall amuse yourself in that way here as much as you like," said Mrs. Overton, smiling, "when you are strong enough."

"But," said Phillis, interrupting her, "I must not stay here. You know I haven't any money, except a little in mother's box, and a little more in the bank. I shall have to earn money, as you did. I can teach little children. I am old enough for that. I was going to do that if She stopped and covered her face with her hands.

"Stay a minute," said Mrs. Overton. "My child, will you tell me a little more about yourself?—just what you like to tell, and then we can talk about what you can do. Are you sure you have no relations anywhere?”

"No very near ones," said Phillis, shaking her head; "none that I know anything about now. Papa and mamma were both only children, but there are some cousins of mother's somewhere, only they are proud people, and we don't know where they are at all. Papa was a clergyman, and we were not very rich. We lived in Westmoreland, on a high mountain-oh, such a beautiful place!" and Phillis's cheeks grew crimson with excitement. "It was a tiny village, far up between two bits of hill, and a long way from other villages. But then we did not care for thatat least I didn't; it was so splendid up there, to climb about over the rocks and watch the waterfall tumbling into the lake down a long way below our feet. I never wanted to see people; mother did sometimes, I think, but not often. She used to call me her company. You see," she added gravely, "she had no other children, so of course she was very fond of me."

"And did you never go to school?" asked Mrs. Overton.

No-never," answered Phillis. "Papa used to teach me arithmetic and drawing, and all the hard things; and mamma taught me French and German, and music. Papa was very clever, and he would not have liked me not to know anything. I don't know half enough yet; there are so many things to learn.”

Mrs. Overton could not help smiling at the serious tone in which Phillis spoke, and at the gravely innocent look on her face.

"That must have been a pleasant way of learning, I should think," she said; "pleasanter than going to school, I dare say."

"Yes," said Phillis, "because they could both teach me very well, so there was no need for me to go to school. But papa died about six months ago, and then we could not stay much longer in Westmoreland. Mother said if we could not stay in our own village she would rather come right away. So we were coming down to Normanville. Mother was going to do work for people, and give music lessons; and I was going to have some little children to teach, because we had not enough money to live upon. It would not have been nice, like living at Elfinburn, but I suppose we should not have minded it after a little while. What do you think I had better do now? Shall I try and get into a school where I could teach little children, and go on learning myself?"

Mrs. Overton did not answer for some minutes; then she said :

Phillis, will you stay with us, my child?"

Phillis started, and became white and red in turn.

May I?" she said simply. "I should like to stay here very much indeed; and I could have some pupils, you know."

"Never mind the pupils," said Mrs. Overton, smiling;

"if you think you could be happy with two old people, Phillis, they would be only too glad to have you. My child, many years ago we had a daughter something like you, but when she was your age she was taken from us, and we have been alone ever since. Phillis, will you take our lost one's place, and be a daughter to us?—at least until any relations of your own come forward to claim you?"

Phillis clasped her hands eagerly.

"It is very-very kind of you," she said in a low voice. "I should like to stay with you very much indeed, and I would try not to give you any trouble, only

"What?" asked Mrs. Overton, as she hesitated and flushed.

66

Only I have no money, as I told you," said Phillis, "to pay for things with."

"We shan't want you to pay for things, dearie," the old lady said, smiling. "We want you to take our Rosie's place, and you know we should have spent money for her, so why should we not for you instead? You are much too young to be thrown on the world, Phillis, and I think God sent me to you that day, on purpose that I might take care of you."

Tears stood in Phillis's eyes. "Please come here, Mrs. Overton," she said; and when the old lady obeyed, she put her arms round her neck, saying "I wanted to kiss you, because I don't know what to say. I don't think I can thank you, Mrs. Overton, for words don't hold all that one wants to put into them."

"I don't want words, or thanks either," said Mrs. Overton, smiling at the mixture of gravity and childishness in the little face that was raised to hers. "I only want to make you happy, my darling, and to make you feel at home as soon as I can. Will you try and be happy, Phillis?"

"Yes," answered Phillis, with a half-sob; "I can't be

very happy when I think about mother, but I will try. You are very good to me."

"Then it is all settled," said Mrs. Overton, "and all you have to think about is to get well as fast as you can. My dear child," she added, tenderly, "I know that I can never take your mother's place. I know what a loss yours is, and how hard to bear, but, Phillis, you must try and think of the bright side, and of your dear mother's happiness."

"Yes, I do try," said Phillis, wearily. "Papa and Eddie must be very glad to have her again. I wonder if Eddie remembers her; he was so little when he died. I expect he and papa were sitting at the gate watching for her. That is what I asked papa to do for her and me just before he died." "You asked him?" said Mrs. Overton. She thought Phillis a strange child.

"Yes," answered Phillis; "I asked him to stay near the gate, if he could, so that we might see him directly we went in. I remember he smiled when I asked him that, and said, 'if he could, but perhaps something else might be given him to do.' Mrs. Overton, what was your Rosie like? and did you say she died when she was only as old as I am?"

"Yes," answered the old lady with a sigh; "she died on her seventeenth birthday. She was fair, like you, Phillis. You remind me of her very often. That was her room which you sleep in."

"Was it?" said Phillis; "that is why it is so pretty, I suppose. And did you never have any other children?"

"No," answered Mrs. Overton, "she was our only one. I can show you her portrait, and when you are well enough to pay a visit to my room, you can see a larger one hanging on the wall."

She took from a box on the table an old-fashioned morocco case and gave it to Phillis, who looked at the pretty face inside with great interest.