“I think,” said the old rector, as they sat round the evening tea-table, “that our school may now vie with any in the diocese—­thanks to the two Roses; twin roses they might almost be called, though Rosa hardly equals Rose.  I wonder what Mrs. Myles would say if she were to look upon this happy group.  Ah dear!—­well God is very good to permit such a foretaste of heaven as is met with here.”  And the benevolent countenance of the good pastor beamed upon the happy family.  “I have brought you the weekly paper,” he continued; “the Saturday paper.  I had not time to look at it myself, but here it is.  Now, Edward, read us the news.”  The farther people are removed from the busy scenes of life, the more anxious they are to hear of their proceedings; and Edward read leading articles, debates, reviews, until, under the head of “Paris,” he read as follows—­“Considerable sensation has been excited here by the sudden death of the beautiful Lady ——.”

Rose screamed, and the paper trembled in Edward’s hand.  “This is too horrid,” he said.

“Do let me hear it all!” exclaimed his wife.

It was many minutes before Edward Lynne could tell her, that there was more than an insinuation, that, wearied of existence, she, the brilliant, the beautiful, the fortunate Lady ——­, wearied of life, had abridged it herself.

Before they separated that evening, the Holy Word was read with more than usual feeling and solemnity by Mr. Stokes, and yet he could not read as much as usual.  “All flesh is grass,” brought tears into his eyes.  His prayer that all might long enjoy the perpetual feast of a contented mind, was echoed by every heart; and the gratitude all felt for God’s goodness to them was mingled with regret for Helen; all intermediate time was forgotten, and the elders of that little party only remembered the bright and beautiful girl, the pride of Abbeyweld.

“God bless my beloved pupil!” said the venerable clergyman, as he departed; “without a holy grace all is indeed vanity.  May Rosa learn, as early as her mother did, that

‘ALL IS NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS.’”

* * * * *

THERE IS NO HURRY.

CHAPTER I.

I do not tell you whether the village of Repton, where the two brothers, John and Charles Adams, originally resided, is near or far from London:  it is a pretty village to this day; and when John Adams, some five-and-thirty years ago, stood on the top of Repton Hill and looked down upon the houses—­the little church, whose simple gate was flanked by two noble yew trees, beneath whose branches he had often sat—­the murmuring river in which he had often fished—­the cherry orchards, where the ripe fruit hung like balls of coral; when he looked down upon all these dear domestic sights—­for so every native of Repton considered them—­John Adams might have been supposed to question if he had