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 . 31, 1861.] spends a good deal of her time in travelling, but she has a house of her own in the parish—I dare say you have noticed it—the only one above the rank of a cottage there is,—a great staring red-faced house surrounded by a high garden-wall, about the middle of the village, and here she generally resides for some months in the year. The other lady you noticed with her at church was Mrs. Tweedie, a Scotch widow, and Miss Green’s companion, or chaperone as the latter lady herself styles her, although Miss Green would probably appear to you something past the age regarding chaperonage. Once upon a time she was very active in the parish, but I suppose I gave her offence about something or other, for her zeal has these many years past subsided into indifference, while the feeling with which she regards me and my daughters must, I fear, be indicated by a harder name. However, poor lady, she does us no harm, and we can forgive her for it,” concluded papa, magnanimously.

Yes, indeed, we could forgive her, whatever might be papa’s sentiments; far rather could we girls tolerate Miss Green’s enmity than her friendship. We had a suspicion, though we were but children at the time, that Miss Arabella had once designed to change her home at the big ugly red-faced house for our pretty quiet parsonage—to change both home and name at one and the same time.

I have said that our father was a very handsome and a very clever man, and that Miss Arabella was a veritable Gorgon, so let it not be thought so unnatural a thing that a rich maiden should dream of throwing herself away upon a poor parson, a widower, with three gawky daughters for incumbrances. Unnatural or the reverse, it was however our inward conviction that this was the secret spring of all Miss Green’s activity in the parish,—of her clothing and sick charities; of her soup bounties on Thursdays; her coals and her blankets at Christmas; and that the hardening of her heart synchronised with the melting away of her matrimonial hopes. Precisely at the same epoch, too, it was, that instead of being greeted as before—with gentle smiles as “sweet darlings”—whenever we chanced to meet Miss Arabella, she brushed past us without a word, and a brow as dark as a thunder-cloud. Of course nothing of all this was related to Mr. Pembroke, but he manifested singular curiosity about the lady, which we endeavoured, in some degree, to gratify. Enough, however, of what passed on this day; time must henceforth move with a swifter wing in my narrative.

Many sermons had now been preached by the new curate in our church, and several dinners eaten by him in our parsonage. Our shyness was diminishing in his presence by small degrees and beautifully less, while Sarah’s love was increasing by large ones and horribly larger. Her love, did I say? Nay, let me not dignify with such a name a folly, which, I may say, had “all the contortions” without any of the “inspiration” of the divine passion. Mr. Pembroke’s intellect was below mediocrity, his vanity beyond anything ever before met with, his character in no respect loveable, and Rose and I were morally certain, it was impossible our sister really loved him. She had, however, persuaded herself she did, at first sight, because of the fancied resemblance to him, whom, as she said, fate had revealed as her future husband, and reason about it as we might, we could not reason her out of her nonsense. Mr. Pembroke meanwhile manifested no symptoms,symptoms [sic] of contagious disease, and Sarah’s were only recognised by our sisterly omniscience. She was, however, looking ill to all eyes, the cause whereof was as follows:

The Curate had one day expressed his admiration of the colour of the larches which ornamented our lawn, and were then just bursting into leaf in all the fresh beauty of the opening spring. From this very simple and natural remark, Sarah had taken it into her head that green was his favourite colour, and in spite of our protest (for nothing could have worse suited her pale complexion), she persisted, from that time forth, in wearing nothing but green. Notwithstanding papa’s near-sightedness, and want of observation in such matters, I expected every day he would be remarking how very unwell she looked.

Mr. Pembroke had been with us about six months, when one morning at breakfast papa exclaimed in stronger terms than usual against the poverty, the absolute imbecility, of his sermons. His progress, papa declared, was retrograde rather than advancing, and he concluded by expressing his determination to dismiss Mr. Pembroke at the end of the year for which he had at first engaged him. I watched, on Sarah’s countenance, the effect of this announcement, but whatever her feelings were, she managed to disguise them successfully, and for several days afterwards made no allusion to the subject either to Rose or me. About a week had passed, when she came to me in my bedroom, one morning, as I was dressing for a walk, with a face which betokened something on her mind.

“I want to speak to you, Fanny,” she began.

“Well, dear, what is it?” I returned, putting my arm round her waist, and kissing her cheek, to encourage her confidence.

“You heard what papa said the other day about—Mr. Pembroke?” uttering the name with difficulty.

“That he must leave at the end of the year if he does not preach better sermons? Yes, dear, I heard that, and I am very sorry if it grieves you, only we cannot help it, you know.”

“Yes, I think I can help it, if it be only the sermons,” returned Sarah, to my astonishment taking a manuscript out of her pocket, and putting it into my hand with the request that I would read it. Seeing that I looked for an explanation, she continued modestly, “I think it is a better sermon, or at least, that it will please papa better than those Mr. Pembroke usually preaches, and I am sure I can find time to write one such every week, and—”

“And oh, Sarah!” I interrupted, “can you really love a man whom you acknowledge in anything inferior to yourself? My lover, if I ever have one, must be one whom I think, and know, and feel from the bottom of my heart, to be infinitely wiser and nobler, and