extremity, the roof of Vale-Hall, where the rich Mr. Oliver and his daughter lived. I hid my eyes, and leant my head against the stone frame of my door: but soon a slight noise near the wicket which shut in my tiny garden from the meadow beyond it, made me look up. A dog—old Carlo, Mr. Rivers' pointer, as I saw in a moment—was pushing the gate with his nose, and St. John himself leant upon it with folded arms; his brow knit, his gaze, grave almost to displeasure, fixed on me. I asked him to come in.
"No, I cannot stay: I have only brought you a little parcel my sisters left for you. I think it contains a colour-box, pencils, and paper."
I approached to take it: a welcome gift it was. He examined my face, I thought, with austerity, as I came near: the traces of tears were doubtless very visible upon it.
"Have you found your first day's work harder than you expected?" he asked.
"Oh, no! On the contrary, I think in time I shall get on with my scholars very well."
"But perhaps your accommodations—your cottage—your furniture—have disappointed your expectations? They are, in truth, scanty enough but"I interrupted:
"My cottage is clean and weather-proof; my furniture sufficient and commodious. All I see
