"Aunty, they are like two wrestlers; I cannot seem to separate them. If I think of the one, I get hold of the other; and if I take up the other, I am obliged to think of the one; and my mind is the fighting-ground."

'Then the two questions are in reality one?"

"No, aunt Caxton, they are not. Only they both press for attention at once.'

"Which is the most important?"

"This one, about which you asked me," Eleanor said, drooping her head a little."

"Then decide that to-day, Eleanor."

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Aunty, I have decided it, in one way. I am determined what I will be, if I can. Only I do not see how. And before I do see how, perhaps, the other question may have decided itself; and then -aunty, I cannot tell you about it to-day. Let me wait a few days; till I know you better and you have time to know me.'

"Then, as it is desirable you should lose no time, I shall keep you with me, Eleanor. Would you like to-morrow to go through the dairies and see the operation of cheese-making? Did you ever see it?"

"Aunt Caxton, I know no more about cheese than that I have eaten it sometimes. I would like to go to-morrow, or to-day; whenever you please.

"The work is nearly over for to-day."

"Do they make cheese in your dairy every day, aunt Caxton?" "Two every day."

"But you must have a great number of cows, ma'am?" "There they are,'

," said her aunt, looking towards the opposite meadows. "We milk between forty and fifty at present; there are about thirty dry."

"Seventy or eighty cows!" exclaimed Eleanor.

"Why aunt

Caxton, you must want the whole valley for their pasturing.

"I want no more than I have," said Mrs. Caxton quietly. "You see, those meadows on the other side of the river look rich. It is a very good cheese-farm."

"How far does it extend, aunty?"

"All along the meadow land, as far as you see.

"I do not believe there is a pleasanter or prettier home in all the kingdom," Eleanor exclaimed. "How charming, aunt Caxton, all this must be in summer, when your garden is in bloom.

"There is a way of carrying summer along with us through all the year, Eleanor; do you know that?"

"I have

"Do you wear the helmet' too?" thought Eleanor. no doubt but you do, over that calm brow." But she only looked wistfully at her aunt, and Mrs. Caxton changed the conversation. She sat down with Eleanor on a settle, for the day was mild and the place sheltered; and talked with her of home and her family. She showed an affectionate interest in all the details concerning her brother's household and life, but Eleanor admired with still increasing and profound respect, the delicacy which stopped every inquiry

at the point where delicacy might wish to withhold the answer. The uprightest self-respect went hand in hand with the gentlest regard and respect for others. To this reserve, Eleanor was more communicative than she could have been to another manner; and on some points her hesitancy told as much, perhaps, as her disclosures on other points; so that Mrs. Caxton was left with some general idea, if not more, of the home Eleanor had lived her life in and the various people who had made it what it was. On all things that touched Rythdale, Eleanor was silent; and so Caxton.

was Mrs.

The conversation flowed on to other topics; and the whole day was a gentle entertainment to Eleanor. The perpetual good-sense, information, and shrewdness of her hostess was matter of constant surprise and interest. Eleanor had never talked with anybody who talked so well; and she felt obliged unconsciously all the time to produce the best of herself. That is not a disagreeable exercise ; and on the whole the day reeled off on silver wheels. It concluded as the former day had done; and in the warm prayer uttered by her aunt, Eleanor could not help feeling there was a pulse of the heart for her; for her darkness and necessities. It sent her to her room touched, and humbled, and reminded; but Eleanor's musings this night were no more fruitful of results than those of last night had been. They resolved themselves into a long waking dream. Mr. Carlisle exercised too much mastery over her imagination, for any other concern to have fair chance till his question was disposed of. Would he come to look for her there? It was just like him; but she had a little hope that her mother's pride would prevent his being furnished with the necessary information. That Eleanor should be sought and found by him on a cheese-farm, the mistress of the farm her own near relation, would not probably meet Mrs. Powle's notions of what it was expedient to do or suffer. A slender thread of a hope; but that was all. Supposing he came ? Eleanor felt she had no time to lose. She could only deal with Mr. Carlisle at a distance. In his presence, she knew now, she was helpless. But a vague sense of wrong combated all her thoughts of what she wished to do; with a confused and conflicting question of what was right. She wearied herself to tears with her dreaming, and went to bed to aggravate her troubles in actual dreams; in which the impossible came in to help the disagreeable.

CHAPTER XVI.

AT THE FARM.

What if she be fastened to this fool lord,
Dare I bid her abide by her word?

HE next morning, nevertheless, was bright, and Eleanor was

Terext neve now she found that the day was begun

at the farmhouse in the same way in which it was ended. A reverent, sweet, happy committing of all her affairs and her friends to God, in the presence and the company of her household, was Mrs. Caxton's entrance, for her and them, upon the work of the day. Breakfast was short and very early, which it had to be if Eleanor wanted to see the operations of the dairy; and then Mrs. Caxton and she went thither; and then first Eleanor began to have a proper conception of the magnitude and complication of the business her aunt presided

over.

The dairies were of great extent, stretching along the ground floor of the house, behind and beyond the covered gallery where she and her aunt had held their first long conversation the day before. Tiled floors, as neat as wax, oaken shelves, tubs, vats, baskets, cheesehoops, presses, all as neat and sweet as it was possible for anything to be, looked like a confusion of affairs to Eleanor's eye. However, the real business done that morning was sufficiently simple; and she found it interesting enough to follow patiently every part of the process through to the end. Several blue jackets were in attendance; some Welsh, some English; each as diligent at her work as if she only had the whole to do. And among them Eleanor noticed how admirably her aunt played the mistress and acted the executive head. Quietly, simply as her words were spoken, they were nevertheless words that never failed to be instantly obeyed; and the service that was rendered her was given with what seemed the alacrity of affection, as well as the zeal of duty. Eleanor stood by, watching, amused, intent; yet taking in a silent lesson of character all the while that touched her heart and made her draw a deep breath now then. The last thing visited was the cheese-house, the room where the cheeses were stored for ripening, quite away from all the dairies. Here there was a forest of cheeses; standing on end and lying on shelves, in various stages of maturity.

"Two a day?" said Eleanor, looking at them. "That makes a wonderful many in the course of the year." "Except Sundays," said Mrs. Caxton.

"No cheese is made on Sunday in my dairy, nor any dairywork done, except milking the cows and setting the milk."

"I mean except Sundays, of course.
"It is not of course 'here," said Mrs. Caxton.

"The common

practice in large dairy-farms is to do the same work on the seventh day that is done all the six."

"But that is wrong, aunty, it seems to me."

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Wrong? Of course it is wrong; but the defence is, that it is necessary. If Sunday's milk is not made at once into cheese, it must wait till Monday; and not only double work must be done then-for Monday will have its own milk, but double sets of everything will be needed; tubs and presses and all. So people think they cannot afford it."

"Well, how can they, aunt Caxton?

that."

"Reason for what?"

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There seems reason in

'Why, I mean, it seems they have some reason for work on the Sabbath not to lose all that milk. It is one seventh of all they have."

Mrs. Caxton replied in a very quiet manner, ""Thou shalt remember the Lord thy God; for it is he that giveth thee power to get wealth.'"

"But aunt Caxton,” said Eleanor, a little doubtfully, "He gives it in the use of means. ""

"Do you think He blesses the use of means He has forbidden?" Eleanor was silent a moment.

"Aunt Caxton, people do get rich so, do they not?"

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"The blessing of the Lord, it maketh rich,'" said Mrs. Caxton, contentedly, "and he addeth no sorrow with it.' That is the sort of riches I like best."

Eleanor did not answer. A kind of moisture came up in her eyes, for she felt poor in those riches.

"It is mere want of faith, Eleanor, that pleads such a reason," Mrs. Caxton went on. "It is taking the power to get wealth into our own hands. If it is in God's hands, it is just as easy certainly for Him to give it to us in the obedient use of means as in the disobedient use of them; and much more likely that He will. Many a man has become poor by his disobedience, for one that has been allowed to prosper awhile in spite of it. If the statistics were made up, men would see. Meanwhile, never anybody trusted the Lord and was confounded."

"Then what do you do with the seventh day's milk, aunt Caxton ?"

"I make butter of it. But I would pour it away down the river, Eleanor, before I would make it an excuse for disobeying God."

This was said without any heat, but as the quietest of conclusions. Eleanor stood silent, wondering at her aunt's cheeses and notions together. She was in a new world, surely. Yet a secret feeling of respect was every moment mounting higher.

"The principle is universally true, Eleanor, that the safe way in everything is the way of obedience. Consequences are not in our hands. It is only unbelief that would make consequences a reason for going out of the way. Trust in the Lord, and keep his way; so shalt he exalt thee to inherit the land.' I have had nothing but

·

prosperity, Eleanor, ever since I began the course which my neighbours and servants thought would destroy me."

"I wanted to ask you that, aunt Caxton; how it had been."

"But, my dear," said Mrs. Caxton, the smile with which she had turned to Eleanor fading into placid gravity again, "if it had been otherwise it would have made no difference. I would rather be poor, with my Lord's blessing, than have all the principality without it.

Eleanor went away thinking. All this applied to the decision of her own affairs; and perhaps Mrs. Caxton had intended it should. But yet, how should she decide? To do the thing that was right— Eleanor wished that, and did not know what it was. Her wishes said one thing, and prayed for freedom. A vague, trammelling sense of engagements entered into and expectations formed and pledges given, at times confused all her ideas; and made her think it might be her duty to go home and finish wittingly what she had begun in ignorance, what she was doing. It would be now to sacrifice herself. Was she called upon to do that? What was right?

Mrs. Caxton never alluded any further to Eleanor's private affairs; and Eleanor never forgetting them, kept them in the darkness of her own thoughts and did not bring them up to the light and her aunt's eye. Only for this drawback, the days would have passed delightfully. The next day was Sunday.

"We have a long drive to church, Eleanor," said her aunt. "How will you go?"

"With you, aunty."

"I don't know about that; my car has no place for you. Are you a horsewoman?"

"Oh, aunty, nothing would be so delightful, if you have anything I can ride. Nothing would be so delightful. I half live in the saddle at home."

"You do? Then you shall go errands for me. I will furnish you with a Welsh pony.'

And this very day Eleanor mounted him to ride to church. Her aunt was in a light car that held but herself and the driver. Another vehicle, a sort of dog-cart, followed with some of the servants. The day was mild and pleasant, though not brilliant with sunbeams. It made no matter. Eleanor could not comprehend how more loveliness could have been crowded into the enjoyment of two hours. On her pony she had full freedom for the use of her eyes; the road was excellent, and winding in and out through all the crookedness of the valley they threaded, she took it at all points of view. Nothing could be more varied. The valley itself, rich and wooded, with the little river running its course, marked by a thick embowering of trees; the hills that enclosed the valley taking every form of beauty, sometimes wild and sometimes tame, heathery and barren, rough and rocky, and again rounded and soft. Along these hills came into view numberless dwellings, of various styles and sizes; with once in a while a bold castle breaking forth in proud beauty, or a dismantled ruin telling of pride and beauty that had been,