employed in rough, coarse tasks; they were soft and white. She placed the basket of dainty sewing on the same table which had served as an altar when she knelt beside David and was made his wife. It was serving as an altar still, bearing that basket of delicate work.

She had become absorbed in a book — not one of those David had suggested. It is doubtful, had he been there, whether he would have really liked to see her reading this one, although it was written by Thackeray, dear to all English hearts. It is more than probable that he would have thought his young wife hardly need be enlightened upon just the sort of things with which Vanity Fair enriches the understanding.

Be it how it may, Cassandra was reading Vanity Fair, which she found in the box of books David had opened so