glad to see it again, I don't deny, Miss,' said the Nipper. `There ain't much in it to boast of, but I wouldn't have it burnt or pulled down, neither!'

`You'll be glad to go through the old rooms, won't you, Susan?' said Florence, smiling.

`Well, Miss,' returned the Nipper, softening more and more towards the house, as they approached it nearer, `I won't deny but what I shall, though I shall hate 'em again, to-morrow, very likely.'

Florence felt that, for her, there was greater peace within it than elsewhere. It was better and easier to keep her secret shut up there, among the tall dark walls, than to carry it abroad into the light, and try to hide it from a crowd of happy eyes. It was better to pursue the study of her loving heart, alone, and find no new discouragements in loving hearts about her. It was easier to hope, and pray, and love on, all uncared for, yet with constancy and patience, in the tranquil sanctuary of such remembrances: although it mouldered, rusted, and decayed about her: than in a new scene, let its gaiety be what it would. She welcomed back her old enchanted dream of life, and longed for the old dark door to close upon her, once again.

Full of such thoughts, they turned into the long and sombre street. Florence was not on that side of the carriage which was nearest to her home, and as the distance lessened between them and it, she looked out of her window for the children over the way.

She was thus engaged, when an exclamation from Susan caused her to turn quickly round.

`Why, Gracious me!' cried Susan, breathless, `where's our house!'

`Our house!' said Florence.

Susan, drawing in her head from the window, thrust it out again, drew it in again as the carriage stopped, and stared at her mistress in amazement.

There was a labyrinth of scaffolding raised all round the house from the basement to the roof. Loads of bricks and stones, and heaps of mortar, and piles of wood, blocked up half the width and length of the broad street at the side. Ladders were raised against the walls: labourers were climbing up and down; men were at work upon the steps of the scaffolding: painters and decorators were busy inside; great rolls of ornamental paper were being delivered from a cart at the door; an upholsterer's waggon also stopped the way; no furniture was to be seen through the gaping and broken windows in any of the rooms; nothing but workmen, and the implements of their several trades swarming from the kitchens to the garrets. Inside and outside alike: bricklayers, painters, carpenters, masons: hammer, hod, brush, pickaxe, saw, and trowel: all at work together, in full chorus.

Florence descended from the coach, half doubting if it were, or could be the right house, until she recognized Towlinson, with a sun-burnt face, standing at the door to receive her.

`There is nothing the matter?' inquired Florence.

`Oh no, Miss.'

`There are great alterations going on.'

`Yes, Miss, great alterations,' said Towlinson.

Florence passed him as if she were in a dream, and hurried up stairs. The garish light was in the long- darkened drawing-room, and there were steps and platforms, and men in paper caps, in the high places. Her mother's picture was gone with the rest of the moveables, and on the mark where it had been, was scrawled in chalk, `this room in-panel. Green and gold.' The staircase was a labyrinth of posts and planks like the out-side of the house, and a whole Olympus of plumbers and glaziers was reclining in various