Some of the happiest remembrances of my childhood are of days spent
in a little Quaker colony on a high hill.

The walk was in itself a preparation, for the hill was long and
steep and at the mercy of the north-east wind; but at the top,
sheltered by a copse and a few tall trees, stood a small house,
reached by a flagged pathway skirting one side of a bright trim
garden.

I, with my seven summers of lonely, delicate childhood, felt, when
I gently closed the gate behind me, that I shut myself into Peace.
The house was always somewhat dark, and there were no domestic
sounds. The two old ladies, sisters, both born in the last
century, sat in the cool, dim parlour, netting or sewing. Rebecca
was small, with a nut-cracker nose and chin; Mary, tall and
dignified, needed no velvet under the net cap. I can feel now the
touch of the cool dove-coloured silk against my cheek, as I sat on
the floor, watching the nimble fingers with the shuttle, and
listened as Mary read aloud a letter received that morning,
describing a meeting of the faithful and the 'moving of the Spirit'
among them. I had a mental picture of the 'Holy Heavenly Dove,'
with its wings of silvery grey, hovering over my dear old ladies;
and I doubt not my vision was a true one.

Once as I watched Benjamin, the old gardener--a most 'stiff-backed
Friend' despite his stoop and his seventy years--putting scarlet
geraniums and yellow fever-few in the centre bed, I asked, awe-
struck, whether such glowing colours were approved; and Rebecca
smiled and said--"Child, dost thee not think the Lord may have His
glories?" and I looked from the living robe of scarlet and gold to