"To be sure," added her sister. "e，you must be obedient." And still holding my hand she made me rise，and led me into the inner room.

"Sit there," she said，placing me on the sofa，"while we take our things off and get the tea ready; it is another privilege we exercise in our little moorland home- to prepare our own meals when we are so inclined，or when Hannah is baking，brewing，washing，or ironing."

She closed the door，leaving me solus with Mr. St. John，who sat opposite，a book or newspaper in his hand. I examined first，the parlour，and then its occupant.

The parlour was rather a small room，very plainly furnished，yet fortable，because clean and neat. The old-fashioned chairs were very bright，and the walnut-wood table was like a looking-glass. A few strange，antique portraits of the men and women of other days decorated the stained walls; a cupboard with glass doors contained some books and an ancient set of china. There was no superfluous ornament in the room- not one modern piece of furniture，save a brace of workboxes and a lady"s desk in rosewood，which stood on a side-table: everything- including the carpet and curtains- looked at once well worn and well saved.

Mr. St. John- sitting as still as one of the dusty pictures on the walls，keeping his eyes fixed on the page he perused，and his lips mutely sealed- was easy enough to examine. Had he been a statue instead of a man，he could not have been easier. He was young- perhaps from twenty-eight to thirty- tall，slender; his face riveted the eye; it was like a Greek face，very pure in outline: quite a straight，classic nose; quite an Athenian mouth and chin. It is seldom，indeed，an English face es so near the antique models as did his.

He might well be a little shocked at the irregularity of my lineaments，his own being so harmonious. His eyes were large and blue，with brown lashes; his high forehead，colourless as ivory，was partially streaked over by careless locks of fair hair.