back half-alarmed, as she always was when the Doctor caught up any of
the little bits of fun that fell so shyly and demurely from her, as
they were evoked by the more congenial atmosphere.

It was a great pleasure to him and to his mother to show her some of
the many things she had never seen, watch her enjoyment, and elicit
whether the reality agreed with her previous imaginations. Mr.
Brownlow used to make time to take the two ladies out, or to drop in
on them at some exhibition, checking the flow of half-droll, half-
intelligent remarks for a moment, and then encouraging it again,
while both enjoyed that most amusing thing, the fresh simplicity of a
grown-up, clever child.

"How will you ever bear to go back again?" said Carey's school-
friend, Clara Cartwright, now a governess, whom Mrs. Brownlow had,
with some suppressed growls from her son, invited to share their one
day's country-outing under the horse-chestnut trees of Richmond.

"Oh! I shall have it all to take back with me," was the answer, as
Carey toyed with the burnished celandine stars in her lap.

"I should never dare to think of it! I should dread the contrast!"

"Oh no!" said Carey. "It is like a blind person who has once seen,
you know. It will be always warm about my heart to know there are
such people."

Mrs. Brownlow happened to overhear this little colloquy while her son
was gone to look for the carriage, and there was something in the
bright unrepining tone that filled her eyes with tears, more