"I don't know," replied Essie, sleepily, "I never thought about it."

"I dare say it was," said Margie, continuing her reflections aloud. "And perhaps that broke her heart, and made her die young. I wonder if there was a man whom she wouldn't marry, or what the story was. I would ask father, only he looks so pained if one ever mentions her name. I think I'll try old Prue next time. She might know; don't you think so, Essie?"

But Essie was already asleep, and Margie turned round on her side, and soon forgot her sudden interest in her lost aunt and the disturbing events of the day in the deep calm of youthful slumbers.

CHAPTER V.

"If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes' palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instructions. I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done, than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching."-Merchant of Venice.

HE morning after an expedition to Wyndover was always a busy one in Luke Chaplin's household. And as in this particular instance the day happened to fall on a Saturday, it proved unusually so.

Esther found half a hundred small jobs that must be done, and even Margery, whose share in household duties was never a heavy one, had her hands full.

It was accordingly getting on for twelve o'clock before she could set to work at the pink bonnetstrings which she was so anxious about, and scarcely half an hour remained till her father's dinner-time.

She had only just sat down in the parlour when Essie, who was busy helping Jenny in the kitchen, heard her give a sudden exclamation of surprise, and ran to see what could be the matter.

"Gracious me! Essie," she cried, "if there isn't Aunt Prue walking up the street. Whatever can bring her here at such an hour? I declare," she continued, lowering her voice, "I believe some news of Mr. Norman's errand here yesterday must have reached her."

"It's hardly possible," said Essie; "he never would have told her himself. How else could she have heard of it, when you haven't even told father? But it's an odd thing, too, and that's her new friend, Mrs. Connor, walking with her."

"The crazy woman?" said Margie, peeping curiously from behind the white window-blind.

"Crazy!" said Essie, with surprise; "whatever makes you call her crazy? Poor woman, I'm sure she's as gentle and harmless as possible."

"She may be," returned Margie decidedly, "but for all that she's crazed. Old Martin Turvey told me so the other day; so you need not look so dreadfully shocked."

"You always believe anything old Martin says," said Essie laughing; "but whatever you think, don't tell Aunt Prudence, or she'll never forgive you."

"She isn't coming here, that's one good job,"

said Margie, who from her post of observation at the window kept a sharp look-out on Mrs. Plaskitt's movements. "Look, Essie, they are taking solemn leave of each other at the corner. Upon my word, I rather like the crazy woman's appearance, she's so neatly dressed all in black, and her gown fits her so well. I begin to think she's too good for old Prue. Why, in the name of goodness, can't she take her on up town, instead of letting her come here to worry us. But at least she hasn't got her band-box this time."

Mrs. Plaskitt's band-box was Margie's special aversion, for it was used to contain her best cap, a part of her attire which she always brought with her when she came to spend the afternoon, and which never failed to denote a benevolent intention on her part of prolonging her visit till dark.

This, however, Margie was spared in the present instance, and it was in no small measure owing to this circumstance that she advanced to meet her aunt at the door with a fair show of civility.

"How do you do, Aunt Prudence?" she began ; "I hope Sally Cuttles hasn't run away, or nothing else terrible has happened to bring you out at such an early hour."

Sally Cuttles, it must be explained, was a workhouse girl, whom Mrs. Plaskitt had engaged at Michaelmas, thereby acting on the principle of

making the best of both worlds, by increasing her own reputation for charitable deeds and obtaining a maid for the lowest wages possible. Her existence afforded Margie much amusement, and she became the subject of frequent allusions which Mrs. Plaskitt did not always relish.

"Nothing of the kind," she returned with some asperity; "I have no fault to find with Sally at present, and the reason I am here at an earlier hour than usual is a very simple one. Mr. Wiggins has sent word that he will be here this afternoon, and I have begged him to step in and take a dish of tea. And as I wished to hear what news your father brought of your uncle and aunt, I thought I would step across this morning."

"Mr. Wiggins?" said Margie, leading her aunt into the parlour, and helping her take off her grey shawl and muffler. "Surely you don't mean that vulgar red-haired man who squints and talks with such an odious twang?'

"I don't know what you may choose to call vulgar, niece," said Mrs. Plaskitt, with pardonable severity, "but Mr. Wiggins has certainly not got red hair, and seeing he is one of my oldest friends, a man of whom I have heard your vicar himself speak in the highest terms, belonging although he does to another persuasion, you might at least mention him with respect."