Without a mother, without a companion, she had to find what solace, what pastime she could.

In the huge house there was not a piano fit to play upon; and her only source of in-door amusement was a library containing a large disproportion of books in old French bindings, with much tarnished gilding on the backs.

But a native purity of soul kept her lovely, and capable of becoming lovelier.
[Illustration: COSMO AND LADY JOAN CLIMBING.] The mystery of all mysteries is the upward tendency of so many souls through so much that clogs and would defile their wings, while so many others SEEM never even to look up.

Then, having so begun with the dust, how do these ever come to raise their eyes to the hills?
The keenest of us moral philosophers are but poor, mole-eyed creatures! One day, I trust, we shall laugh at many a difficulty that now seems insurmountable, but others will keep rising behind them.

Lady Joan did not like ugly things, and so shrank from evil things.