Nellie, who had taken one of the pretty volumes into her hand and was scanning the title-page, looked up at Miss Latimer's face with a half-incredulous light in her eyes; but Aunt Judith, gazing down on the little figure before her, failed to catch the puzzled gleam.

"My child," she said, oh so gently, taking the small white hands and drawing the young girl to the warm fireside, "your words do my heart good, and help to repay me for hours of weary labour. You wish to know the author of those books, dear. You feel you could tell her some of your deepest longings. What will you say when I confess that she stands before you—that it is in very truth Aunt Judith who loves children and sends them through print her best heart-thoughts?"

Nellie's face at this point was a study; but Winnie cried joyfully,—

"I knew it, I knew it! something whispered to me it was you. Oh, Miss Latimer, I am so glad! Will you lend me one of your dear little books, and may I love you because you are so good? I wish you were my aunt; I do indeed," and there was a lonely ache in the girlish voice as she spoke.

Miss Latimer laid her hand on the rough curly head.

"Little Winnie," she said tenderly, "don't you know that love is a treasure to me? I shall prize your warm, true affection very dearly. Call me Aunt Judith, my child; and when you read my little books, to which you are heartily welcome, remember I am speaking simply from my heart, with the earnest wish to raise your thoughts to the good Father who made this beautiful world and gave us all things richly to enjoy."

Words like these had a strange sound to Winnie, and filled her with an awe-stricken feeling; but she made no reply, only raising herself on tip-toe she kissed Miss Latimer warmly, and turned her attention to the bookcase again. At that moment the door-bell rang, and Miss Deborah announced the arrival of Dick with the carriage to take his sister home. So once more they re-entered the little parlour where Aunt Debby, with kind thoughtfulness, had prepared a repast of fruit and cake, and where Master Blake sat looking decidedly awkward and out of place in the dainty little room.

He acknowledged Miss Latimer's greeting with a few unintelligible words, and seemed altogether to be labouring under some restraint, till Winnie said with a light laugh,—

"For the first time in my life, Dick, I am sorry to see you. Whatever made you come so soon?" and at the plain-spoken words there was such a general laugh that the boy's reserve vanished, and—"Richard was himself again."

Nellie and he became fast friends, and chatted away pleasantly; while Winnie, after having partaken plentifully of fruit and cake, went to put on her hat and jacket under Miss Latimer's escort.

"May I come again soon?" she inquired naively, looking round the tiny room with loving eyes; "this is such a dear little house, and you are all so kind, I should like to spend an afternoon often here." Winnie seemed very earnest as she spoke.

"We shall be only too pleased to see you," replied Aunt Judith, smiling down on the upturned face, and neatly adjusting the tie round the girl's soft neck. "I love to have young people about me, and it is good to hear the sound of a blithe young voice."

Those words amply satisfied Winnie, and after many good-nights had been exchanged, she and Dick drove homewards, bearing with them two of Aunt Judith's precious volumes.

"I say, Win, that's a jolly little house," said the boy as they rolled along in the darkness. "What a funny, brisk old lady Aunt Debby is! Did you notice the way she dodged about, and how her front curls shook and bobbed a regular jig every time she spoke? She puts me in mind of a little bird peeping out at you from those small twinkling eyes. She's a rum old customer, sure enough;" and Dick chuckled at the remembrance of Miss Deborah's round chubby face and crisp chirping voice.

"Yes, she is rather queer," assented Winnie musingly; "but I like Miss Latimer dearly. She is awfully good, Dick; and fancy her being the author of those books after all. Is it not strange?"

"Slightly, perhaps; but 'truth is stranger than fiction,' my dear sister.—By-the-by, I did not notice any Quaker fashion in their dress to-night. Miss Latimer wore some lace fal-lal about her neck, and Aunt Debby's cap was a regular flower-garden." Dick was a severe critic on female attire.

"That's quite true," replied Winnie; "but if you saw them in the street, with their long loose cloaks and huge bonnets, you would speak differently. O Dick, how happy they all seem! don't they? and how cosy everything looks! Such a contrast to our great big rooms, where you feel like a—a—" Winnie stopped short for lack of a simile, and her brother supplied the missing word,—

"Pelican in the wilderness. That's it, Win; and you're about right. Love won't make the pot boil; but money can't buy everything, and I reckon there's a screw loose somewhere in our home."

With that there followed a long silence, and Winnie was almost in the land of dreams when the carriage stopped at No. 3 Victoria Square, and Dick shouted roguishly in her ear the one word—"Awake!"

The windows were ablaze with light, and there were sounds of music and singing as brother and sister, entering the house, wended their way to the oak parlour and warmed their hands at the cheerful blaze. The gas was lit, the curtains drawn, the room tidy and inviting-looking; but no kind motherly face was there to welcome them and ask if the evening had been a pleasant one. At other times Winnie would not, most probably, have felt the blank, having been accustomed to such neglect; but coming straight from Aunt Judith's gentle presence, and with the remembrance of her loving words and kind voice stirring the lonely little heart, it struck home to her with a chill. Leaving Dick to his own meditations she slipped away to the large nursery, where old nurse sat quietly watching the slumbers of her young charge, Winnie's little step-brother.

Here at least there was no lack of sympathy or welcome, for dearly did the faithful servant love her first mistress's children, and bitterly did she bewail the neglect with which the two youngest were treated. Kneeling down by her side, Winnie rehearsed the whole history of the afternoon and evening at Dingle Cottage; and old nurse, listening intently, did not fail to raise her hands and express due astonishment at the knowledge of Aunt Judith's authorship. So the young girl was comforted, and after kissing her little brother lovingly, she rejoined Dick in the oak parlour, and passed the rest of the evening contentedly in his society.



CHAPTER VIII.

FORGING THE FIRST LINK.

Autumn, with its sobbing winds and falling leaves, was over now, and cold, sterile winter reigned supreme all around. Day after day the chill northern blasts swept over the busy town, bringing with them now a tempest of blinding sleet, and again showers of softly-falling snow: rich people wrapped themselves warmly in their furs and velvet; and the poor, gathering their tattered garments more closely round them, shivered under the touch of the icy king. But if winter days brought cold, bleak winds and murky skies, they also brought many pleasures in their train; and young hearts beat joyfully as the Christmas-tide drew near, and bright visions of the festive season filled each youthful mind.

Winnie especially was in a state of great excitement, for Mrs. Blake had promised her a party with a real Christmas tree, to which she was at liberty to invite as many of her school-mates as she chose. One little trifle alone damped her happiness—namely, the command to include Ada Irvine in the list of her invitations; and although Winnie pouted and pleaded her dislike of that young lady, Mrs. Blake remained firm, and insisted that her injunction should be carried out. "Your father was formerly on very intimate terms with Mr. Irvine, Winnie, and I will have no slight or disrespect shown to his daughter; so, either post her an invitation or abandon the idea of a party altogether." And when her step-mother spoke in that decided manner, Winnie knew she had no alternative save to yield.

"I sincerely trust Ada Irvine will have the good sense to refuse," she confided to Nellie the day on which the invitations were about to be issued. "She'll spoil the whole affair it she comes, horrid old thing; and I did mean it all to be so nice. Ugh! she will surely never accept," and Winnie's face wore anything but an amiable expression.

School had not been such a very pleasant place those last few weeks, and many of the scenes which occurred there were certainly neither seemly nor instructive. Open warfare reigned between Ada and Winnie, and the skirmishes were becoming serious as well as disagreeable; for Winnie, scouting all Nellie's proposals of being patient and winning by love, made a fiery little adversary, and Ada Irvine's dislike of both was rapidly deepening into the bitterest hatred—the more so when she saw Nellie rising gradually in the esteem of both teachers and scholars: the former being won by her steady attention and modest behaviour; the latter by the simple, kindly spirit which characterized all her actions. There was much still to call for patient forbearance and quiet endurance; but Nellie could see the golden sunlight streaming through the clouds, and hopefully trusted that by-and-by every dark shadow would vanish and leave never a trace behind.

This state of matters was as gall and wormwood to Ada. Nellie's gradual triumph, and Winnie's malicious delight thereat, roused every evil passion in her nature; and out of her deadly hatred she meditated a sure revenge when the opportunity came in her way. What form it would take she hardly knew; events would shape themselves somehow; and then—the cold blue eyes glittered ominously at the thought of what she termed her reckoning-day.

Many a tender, wistful thought Winnie sent to Miss Latimer, though she had never managed to visit Dingle Cottage a second time. Her precious volumes were read and re-read over and over again; and it seemed as it Aunt Judith's quiet, peaceful face shone forth from every page, and the soft, kindly voice uttered each loving word and noble thought. Dick used to protest his utter weariness of Aunt Judith and her books, for day after day she was quoted to him with never-failing enthusiasm; but on those occasions when he did give expression to such sentiments, Winnie merely treated him to a hearty embrace, and pursued the interesting subject with increased earnestness. In the meantime, however, her mind was so fully occupied with the forthcoming party that nothing else was on her lips from morn till eve; and with regard to Miss Latimer, Dick had peace for a season.

Oh, what discussions took place in the old oak parlour over the approaching festivity! How was it to be conducted? What was to be the programme for the evening? and who were to be included in the list of invitations?

"I suppose your friends will be able to dance, Dick?" inquired Winnie one night when they were sitting together talking as usual about the great event in prospect. "Mamma says we cannot play games all the evening."

"Well, I daresay they can do a hop or two when it's necessary," answered the boy lazily. "Just you get hold of Archie Trollope and he'll spin you round and round the room in a twinkle; not very gracefully, perhaps, but with no lack of energy. He's the boy to do it;" and Dick laughed as he pictured the charming spectacle with his mental eye.

Winnie looked dignified.

"If he cannot dance properly," she said, with a touch of contempt in her voice, "most assuredly he will not have the honour of dancing with me. I have no desire to figure ridiculously in a ball-room," and the little lady drew herself up proudly as she spoke.

Dick collapsed.

"The honour!" he gasped spasmodically—"the honour! My eye! listen to the princess!" and rolling himself about in convulsions of laughter, the vulgar boy ended his merriment by tilting over his chair and landing himself gracefully on the floor.

"Why not an honour, pray?" inquired Winnie, looking loftily on the sprawling form at her feet. "Is it not a great privilege for any gentleman to dance with a lady?" and the indignant child laid special stress on the word "great."

Dick rose, and treating her to a sweeping Sir Charles Grandison bow, replied, "You are right, madam; the honour is inestimable." At this both laughed, and continued the interrupted conversation.

"Ada Irvine has accepted her invitation, Dick," was Winnie's next announcement, given with ominous gravity. "No one ever imagined she would do so, and all the school-girls are talking about it."

Dick gave a low whistle.

"Depend upon it, Win," he said solemnly, "there's something in the wind. Ada Irvine's not the girl to take such a step without having a reason for so doing. I guess you and Nellie had better look out for squalls, for if Miss Ada's not up to some low dodge, my name's not Richard Blake."

And even while they were speaking, the subject of their conversation sat up in her comfortable bedroom at Mrs. Elder's, thinking over the first link she was about to forge in the long chain of bitter malice and deceit. She was seated in a low basket-chair before the fire, making a pretty picture with her long fair hair floating down her back, and her dainty figure nestling cosily amongst the soft cushions. Her blue eyes had an absent, far-away look, and the small white hands lying on her lap were nervously interlaced one with the other.

"Yes," she muttered in a low, hushed voice, "I shall have my revenge, though I cannot as yet see the way clearly before me. I hardly know towards which I bear the greater hatred, but anyhow both will suffer—Winnifred Blake for her malicious triumph and delight; Nellie Latimer for her upsetting behaviour and quiet contempt. Oh, how I detest them both!" and the girl's eyes gleamed angrily. There was a moment's silence; then she continued, knitting her white brow in a perplexed frown,—"I wonder how I shall manage? One thing is certain: I must do my best on Friday night—make a good impression on the Blake family, and cautiously poison their minds with respect to Nellie Latimer. People are so credulous in this world, it is wonderful what a word skilfully thrown in will do, and how very easily it is credited; but I must be careful, and lay my plans with the greatest caution."

She spoke all this in a low undertone, as if fearful of being overheard, and her eyes wandered round the room with an uneasy light shining in their depths. The fire-flames leaped and crackled, the pretty room was full of warmth and comfort; yet the girl shivered violently, and gave a scared glance towards the window as the wind went wailing round the house like a sobbing child. What gave her that strange, restless feeling—that weariness of heart? She could hardly tell; only somehow the world seemed all changed of late, and the Christmas-tide so close at hand failed to afford the same joy and gladness it had done heretofore. A great black cloud seemed to be hiding all the sunshine from her sight; a heavy weight would keep dragging at her heart-strings, and a continual thirst after revenge persisted in haunting her every footstep.

Yet this time was a season of peace and holy joy—a time when hand should clasp hand with the fervour of warm friendship, and all past slights and wrongs be blotted out for ever, leaving room for naught in the heart save the pure Christ-like love which makes this world a heaven on earth. Night after night, as the Christmas-tide drew near, the sky spread itself over all—one curtain, of misty blue, studded with the bright, scintillating twinkle of myriads of happy stars. Every evening the quiet, peaceful moon shone forth rounder and mellower; the north wind tempered its cutting blasts and touched the sleeping earth gently, gently with its icy fingers; and the frost-sparkles, glistering from lofty steeple and sloping roof, changed the dingy town to a veritable fairyland.

At first Nellie had often wondered why Miss Latimer took such an interest in the outside world, and what beauty she could see in the busy city with its constant din and bustle. But that was over now, for she had learned that the nature-world was as an open book to Aunt Judith—a treasury from which she brought forth gold, silver, and precious stones, and scattered them throughout the world in the shape of grand, beautiful thoughts.

Nellie found life very pleasant just now at the little cottage in Broomhill Road. Miss Latimer and Aunt Debby vied with each other in every endeavour to add to her comfort and happiness; while even Aunt Meg roused herself occasionally from her selfish torpor and tried to brighten the tiny home. She could gladden it wonderfully when she chose, for Miss Margaret possessed many pleasing traits of character; but, alas! she seldom did choose, and, as Miss Deborah quaintly expressed it, "one had to endure innumerable showers of rain for one gleam of sunshine." Nellie had become so accustomed, however, to the invalid's whims and caprices, that she thought little, if at all, about them, and in the meantime her whole attention was engrossed with Winnie's party. Miss Latimer had bought her a soft white muslin for the occasion, and Miss Deborah was busy converting it into the prettiest party-dress imaginable. The young girl had been at first slightly dubious about Aunt Debby's dress-making capabilities; but her doubts were fast disappearing as she watched the gradual progress made under that lady's skilful fingers, and noted how beautifully and tastefully the work was done.

"I am sure no one will have such a pretty dress, Aunt Debby," she said one afternoon, coming into the parlour and finding Miss Deborah busy over the dainty garment. "It is so good of you to put yourself to all this trouble for me, and I shall never be able to thank you as I ought." Nellie's eyes glistened as she spoke.

"You will soon find out your mistake, my dear," said Aunt Meg from her couch by the fire. "I question if one of your friends will be dressed in so simple and cheap a material. Why, you will be a regular dowdy, and I told Judith so when she showed me her purchase. She could hardly have bought a less expensive fabric."

"Nonsense, Meg," put in Miss Deborah with a displeased frown and rapid glance at Nellie's amazed countenance; "don't place absurd ideas in the child's head. You know perfectly well muslin makes a most appropriate dress for a young girl. I wonder what Judith would say were she to hear you speak in that manner?"

"Look like a saint, and preach to Nellie on the vanity and vexation of the human heart," replied the invalid, who seemed to be decidedly out of humour. "I am well aware of Judith's style, Debby: that is how she covers her stinginess," and Miss Margaret gave a little sarcastic laugh at this point.

"Hush!" almost shouted Miss Deborah, turning a pair of bright, angry eyes in the direction of the couch. "How dare you utter such an untruth? Simply because one of your endless wishes was thwarted. Meg, I am ashamed of you!" and Aunt Debby resumed her sewing with an air of heavy displeasure, while the invalid relapsed into sulky silence, the cause of her ill-humour being Aunt Judith's refusal that morning to grant her a new dressing-gown. "Wait a little longer, Meg; I can hardly afford it just now, and your old one still looks pretty and fresh," had been the quiet answer to the proffered request; but that was sufficient to upset the invalid's equanimity for the rest of the day, and no amount of kindness could soothe her wounded feelings.

Of course Nellie was ignorant of all this. Still, although she did not believe Miss Margaret's statement in reference to Miss Latimer's meanness, the words left a sting, and the pretty dress seemed divested of half its beauty. "Aunt Judith might have purchased something just a trifle more expensive," was the unuttered thought ever rising to her lips; but, oh! how her heart reproached her when, on the evening of the party, Miss Latimer called her into the little sanctum, and, shutting the door, lifted a small box from the table and proceeded to unfasten the lock.

"Aunt Debby has just been showing me your dress, Nellie," she said in her soft gentle voice, "and now that it is finished I think it very pretty indeed. I hardly know why, but I have an idea you consider it too simple for evening wear; and although I am sorry should such be the case, I cannot agree with you. The dress seems to me quite suitable, and its charm lies in its very simplicity. A little trinket round the neck, however, might be an improvement, and so, dear, I am going to forestall my Christmas present and give it to you now. I suppose you will value it none the less because I used to wear it long ago in my girlhood days;" and Miss Latimer, lifting a string of fairest pearls from the box, clasped them round her niece's neck as she spoke.

Nellie's breath came quick and fast.

"O auntie! they are never for me," she gasped excitedly. "They are so beautiful, and I have been thinking such horrid things."

Aunt Judith smiled. "I do not blame you, child. It is only natural such thoughts should crop up; but, Nellie, I am not so very rich, and cannot afford to be lavish with my money. One never knows what may happen, and I must needs guard against a rainy day. No, no; not another reproachful word. I like to see my child look fair and sweet. Good-night, dear." And kissing her softly. Miss Latimer pushed the repentant girl from the room with gentle hands. Then closing the door, she drew a low chair close to the fire, and, as she sat quietly thinking, the white, set look Nellie had noticed before settled over the patient face, while the lips quivered and drooped like those of one in pain.

What was the mystery in Aunt Judith's life? What suffering had stamped its refining image on that noble, true face, and bore witness to the fiery trial through which she had passed?

Few knew of the life of complete self-renunciation lived out in that little home—the quiet acceptance and patient bearing of a life-long sorrow, and the earnest endeavour day after day to follow closely the Master's footsteps, and live his holy, blameless life. But some day in the great hereafter, she knew the mystery of suffering would be explained, and that there what was here sown weeping would be reaped in joy and gladness; and knowing this, Aunt Judith was content to wait.



CHAPTER IX.

THE CHRISTMAS PARTY.

It was the evening of the party. The bustle and confusion which had reigned throughout the day were now over, and the whole house blazed with light; while the hall-door, standing hospitably open, seemed to offer a gracious welcome to the approaching guests.

"How do I look, Win?" inquired Dick of his sister as they stood together in the large drawing-room a little apart from the other members of the family. "This get-up is awful," and the boy looked down with a gesture of disgust on his elegant evening suit.

"You'll do beautifully," pronounced Win, pirouetting in front of him, a blithe little fairy, with soft cloudy dress of glistening fabric. "Don't look so fierce, dear boy, however, or you will frighten all the young ladies from your side."

Dick struggled into his gloves. "Much I care so far as that goes," he grumbled. "What I wish to know is, why one needs all this war-paint and tomfoolery. Can a fellow not be allowed to enjoy himself without dressing up a perfect guy? I feel every seam in my coat splitting, and I tell you there will be a tremendous explosion soon. Just listen!" and bending forward, the boy proved the truth of his words as an ominous crack sounded, and Winnie's dismayed eye caught the glimpse of a tiny hole in one of the back seams.

"Be careful," she cried in an awestricken voice; "there is a split, and you'll make it worse if you wriggle about so. Be a good boy, Dickie, and try to prove agreeable to every one."

Saying this, Winnie treated her brother to a charming smile, and then tripped forward as the first bevy of guests were ushered into the room.

Dick made a grimace, twisted his neck, and vehemently denounced high collars and white ties as being decided nuisances; then remembering his sister's parting injunction, he attempted to call up an angelic smile to his face, and to make his most polite bow on every necessary occasion.

The room began gradually to fill. One after another carriages came and went, depositing their happy burdens of laughing boys and girls before the great hall-door, near which some little ragged children were standing, gazing on the fairy figures and joyous faces, and wondering, as the wind fluttered their tattered rags, why the world was so unequally divided—why some should have so much of the good things of this life, and others apparently so little. Poor, weary, aching hearts, on whom the burden and heat of the day had already fallen, they knew not as they watched the carriages come and go, and peeped into the warm hall all ablaze with light, how assuredly "compensation is twined with the lot of high and low," and that the loving eye of the Almighty Father was regarding them with the same tender care he bestowed on their happier brothers and sisters. They only realized, as the door closed at last with a loud clang, and they turned away to their miserable homes, that within that large house there were warmth, light, and gladness, and that they were shut out from them all. The calm hushed sky had for them no lessons of faith and peaceful waiting; the bright stars no tale of an Eye that neither slumbers nor sleeps. They only knew it was cold, cold, and that life had for them no brightness. So the little naked figures crept shivering away; and the happy boys and girls gathered together in the beautiful holly-decked drawing-room never thought of the dark places of the earth, where the sunshine rarely penetrates, and young hearts know not what it is to laugh the glad joyous laugh of happy childhood.

Dick, who had gathered five of his special friends around him, was evidently holding a consultation in which he himself played the most prominent part. The subject under consideration was that of showing special attention throughout the entire evening to Nellie Latimer, and of completely ignoring Ada Irvine's presence.

"Now, comrades," concluded the young orator, as a loud burst of music warned him that the night's entertainment was about to commence, "I presume you thoroughly understand me. Not a single hop, remember, with Miss Irvine, and any amount of polkas and waltzes with Miss Latimer. The former is one of your stuck-up young ladies, who grow old before their time; the latter, a tip-top girl like Win. I have told you what I know concerning both of them; go ahead and prosper, brethren, with my humble blessing following you." Dick, as he spoke, changed the tragic attitude he had struck, and assumed one of staid demeanour, which contrasted comically with his shock of fiery hair, now standing all on end, as people say, and laughter lurking in his eyes.

The boys, however, entered heartily into the spirit of his scheme, and replied, "You are our leader. Forward then; light the first match, and we will follow the train,"—whereat they all shook hands and indulged in a low chuckle of glee.

At that moment a pretty, gloved hand touched Dick's arm, and Edith Blake's clear, flute-like voice said, "We are forming sets for the lancers, Dick, and you must dance. Mamma requests you to choose Miss Irvine for your partner, so please go and ask her at once."

The boy's eyes flashed mischievously. "You bet I shall," he replied with alacrity; and crossing the room, he stood before Nellie, saying in his most genial tones, "May I have the pleasure, Miss Latimer?"

The young girl looked up with a happy smile. "Certainly," she said, rising and slipping her hand within his arm; "the music is splendid, and I am so fond of dancing."

"That's right," answered Dick, leading her into the centre of the room, and vastly enjoying the indignant glances of his step-mother and Edith. "I like a hop myself at times, so I guess we'll get on well together.—Now then, gentlemen, bow to your partners;" and as he concluded, the wild boy swept Nellie the most profound bow, and started off through the first figure with more energy than grace.

His friends, true to their promise, had all chosen partners, the sets were formed, the music floating through the room, and still Ada Irvine remained in her seat, fair, sweet, and smiling to the outward view, but with a world of angry passion surging in her heart. As she sat watching the merry boys and girls winding joyously through the mazy dance, Mrs. Blake came forward, and, sitting down by her side, proceeded to question her about her parents and their movements abroad; and Ada answered each query in a pretty, graceful manner infinitely charming. Then school and school-life were touched upon. Had Miss Irvine many friends in town? Did she not often feel very lonely? and why could she never come and spend an afternoon with Winnie? These and other questions being asked, the first drop of poison was instilled with the skill and caution of an adept hand.

"Winnie and she had been very good friends once, before Nellie Latimer's appearance on the scene, but since then a misunderstanding had arisen and the friendship had been broken up. Was Miss Latimer an amiable girl? Winnie seemed very much attached to her. Ada would rather not commit herself, but certainly Nellie's position was not such as to justify her in being Winnie's chosen friend. Her family were poor, very poor indeed; her aunts eccentric, winning their own bread, doing their own work, and living in a common locality."

All this, however, was told with much reluctance (at least apparently so) and the earnest endeavour to tone down disagreeable parts. Mrs. Blake was charmed, and wondered how Winnie could prefer a fresh, countrified-looking girl to the sweet, amiable creature Miss Irvine appeared to be. As she sat pondering over these things in her heart, Ada's low voice broke again on her ear.

"Mrs. Blake," she pleaded, "kindly do not betray my confidence. I never meant to tell you anything about myself, and Winnie would hate me were she to discover that I had prejudiced you against her friend; indeed I am very sorry I spoke."

A true, noble woman would have scorned to condemn any one on account of lowly origin and humble rank in life; but Mrs. Blake was a woman of the world—proud, arrogant, and haughty. She took little interest in her younger step-children; they were allowed to live pretty much their own lives and follow their own desires; but still there were some things that must be checked, and this friendship with a low-born girl was one of them.

Turning to her young guest with a swift, bright smile, she replied sweetly, "Do not apologize, my dear; I am only too glad to have received your information in time. I had no idea Miss Latimer's friends were in the position you speak of. Had that been the case, certainly she would not have been here to-night. Winnie is allowed no small amount of liberty, but close companionship with a girl so much her inferior will not be countenanced for a moment. You need not fear, however, my betraying your confidence; and I trust soon to see you and my wilful little step-daughter fast friends once more."

As she spoke Mrs. Blake rose and moved gracefully away, leaving Ada with a bevy of laughing girls, who came flocking towards her as the music ceased.

"Did you enjoy our dance, Nellie?" inquired Dick, wiping his warm forehead and glancing with ludicrous dismay at the rents in his once spotless gloves. "I thought it all tip-top."

"Splendid," replied Nellie decidedly; "and you really managed to get through the figures wonderfully well."

The boy's amazed countenance was amusing.

"I managed to get through the figures wonderfully well!" he reiterated in astonishment. "Why, Nellie, I am an accomplished dancer" (with mock solemnity), "and have been so since the days when I was a little thing. You should see me at the Highland fling and sword-dance. My eye! I go at them well," and Dick's legs began to shuffle about as if they desired to commence the performance.

Nellie laughed. "Forgive me," she said pleasantly. "I did not mean any disparagement; only boys, as a rule, do not care about dancing, and you seemed somehow to enjoy it all so thoroughly."

"That I did" (with emphasis), "but—hallo, Archie! is it really you?" as a boy passed his side at that moment. "Allow me to introduce you to Miss Latimer.—Here, Nellie, is the very partner for you; he will dance you off your feet in a few minutes," and Dick, hurrying away, left the two young people regarding each other with looks of rather comical dismay.

After that, the evening fled by all too quickly for Nellie, to whom every moment was fraught with the purest pleasure. Dick saw she had no lack of partners, and constituted himself her guardian for the night, greatly to Mrs. Blake's annoyance and Winnie's satisfaction. The former could find no means of laying any more commands on him, for the boy mischievously eluded her every attempt to cross his path, and failed most provokingly to catch her eye when a convenient season presented itself for so doing. Nellie, with true appreciation of his kindness, thanked him warmly in her innocent heart, and thought she had never spent such a pleasant evening. There was never a cloud to darken her enjoyment or dim the brightness of her happy face. Mrs. Blake's studied avoidance passed by unnoticed, as also the haughty looks of Winnie's elder sisters; and even Ada Irvine's calm, contemptuous face failed to ruffle her joyous spirit.

Long years afterwards she liked to look back on that evening of thorough, uninterrupted enjoyment, when she could say in all sincerity and truth, "I was happy;" when she danced with what seemed to be winged feet, and the smile of gladness was ever on her lips. Closing her eyes softly, she could see it all again—the large holly-decked drawing-room, with its blazing lights and bevy of merry boys and girls; Winnie's little figure flitting here and there—her flushed cheeks and great starry eyes; Dick's honest freckled face and kindly smile; and the beautiful, stately hostess, who moved in the midst of them all with the dignity of a queen.

The Christmas tree was a great success, the presents being pretty and appropriate. Winnie smiled her delight over a dainty long-wished-for work-box; Dick chuckled at the splendid pair of skates now in his possession; Ada looked gratified when a lovely fan was handed down to her; and Nellie was speechless over a pretty morocco purse.

"It has been all so splendid, Winnie dear," she whispered when good-nights were being exchanged; "just like fairyland. I have enjoyed myself wonderfully. And now be sure and come soon to Dingle Cottage; you will have plenty of time during the holidays, and Aunt Judith is wearying to see you."

"I'll be only too glad, Nell," replied her friend, kissing her warmly; "but I must get mamma's permission first.—Dick, see Nellie safely into the cab." Then the carriage rolled away, and the wonderful Christmas party was over.

"I think," said Winnie, coming into the large diningroom after the last guest had departed, and finding her brother (alas that I should have to confess it!) prowling round the table and surreptitiously pocketing something from every tempting dish he saw thereon, "we have had a beautiful night, and I am sure the party has been a decided success."

"So far as the food is concerned it has," answered the boy, regarding the good things heaped before him with a loving eye. "I say, Win, do let us have a tuck in at this souffle here; we shall never see it after to-night, and it is such prime stuff."

Winnie laughed. "You'll require to hurry then, Dick," she replied; "the servants will be here in a few minutes." So the two young gourmands sat down and commenced a second supper ere the lights were put out and the mandate issued—"Go to bed."

For a few seconds nothing was said, both being too busily engaged with the contents of their plates to join in any conversation; but at last Dick poised his spoon in the air and commenced in a serio-comic tone,—

"I guess we shall have to pay for our evil deeds this evening. I saw the storm-warning hoisted on our step-mother's face all night, so look out for squalls."

"Whatever do you mean?" inquired Winnie, glancing up from her plate with an innocent look. "I do not understand you, my dear boy."

"Oh, do you not?" replied the dear boy, mimicking her tones, and twisting his amiable countenance into an altogether indescribable expression. "Do you imagine your conduct towards the lovely Ada was not observed and commented upon by our mother and stuck-up sisters? If so, pray rid yourself at once of such a delusion, for I tell you, Win, there's a storm looming in the distance for you and for me."

Winnie pouted.

"So be it!" she cried defiantly; "I don't care. I am no hypocrite, Dick, and must act as I feel. I did not wish Ada to come to our party. I hate her with my whole heart, and I believe in just letting her see such is the case."

Dick ran his hand through his shock of hair, and opened his eyes as widely as he possibly could. "My word, we're waxing eloquent," he observed approvingly. "Go it, little sister; you're doing first-rate;" and he helped himself liberally to another supply of souffle as he spoke.

"What a tease you are!" said Winnie, pushing aside her plate with a gesture of petulance; "you know I am in earnest, not in fun."

"True, my queen" (with a mock bow), "therefore I shall no longer descend to vulgar jesting. But seriously, Win, I tell you frankly the mother is awfully angry at us. You did not study her face, perhaps, but I watched closely, and saw a regular thunder-cloud on her brow all night. How could it be otherwise, when she noticed your steady avoidance of her favourite and my open rudeness?"

"I enjoyed your open rudeness vastly, Dick," interrupted the girl, with a twinkle sparkling in her eye and a mischievous smile on her lip. "I could have hugged you every time you danced with Nellie, and when I saw you trooping your boys up to her. Why, she was quite a belle amongst you all."

"Yes; I flatter myself we trotted her out very well, and the fellows all agree she is good fun. But oh, what a dodging I had to manage my point! Every few minutes I descried the mother bearing down upon me, and was obliged to skeedaddle." Dick's language never was remarkable for elegance.

"Well, I am not the least wee bit sorry for my behaviour," said Winnie, rising as she heard the sound of approaching footsteps; "and if I am to get a scolding I must just get it. You'll be able to console me when it is over, will you not? Meantime I intend to forget it all in sleep, so—good-night, Dick;" and the little fairy, in her soft, airy garments, waved him a tiny kiss as she vanished from the room and hurried to her own pretty apartment.

Dick, with his well-filled pockets, retired also; the servants entering, closed the shutters and put out the lights; the feeble fire flickered for a little, then died slowly, and deep, unbroken slumber settled over all.

Meanwhile, outside in the quiet night the snow was falling softly, silently—wrapping the sleeping earth in a pure, unsullied winding-sheet, and covering the church steeples with its feathery flakes. Hush! hush! how silently, yet how quickly, the snow showers fell. Slowly the hours passed by. Morning stealing in swept back the clouds of night and darkness, and the sun, peeping through with his warm, genial ray, shone down with a light which grew brighter and brighter as the world wakened up and the merry Christmas bells sent their happy chimes pealing through the frosty air.



CHAPTER X.

GATHERING CLOUDS.

Rough, rumpled hair, two soft eyes drowned in tears, flushed, angry cheeks and pouting lips, was the picture which met Dick's view one morning when he entered the oak parlour two days after the eventful party. Christmas had passed by pleasantly and tranquilly for both children. They had had the regular Christmas dinner—turkey, mince-pies, plum-pudding, etc.—and the afternoon and evening had been filled with youthful pleasure and amusement. Sabbath also was calm and peaceful, so calm, indeed, that Winnie began to think their fears were groundless, and Mrs. Blake's annoyance a mere myth; but Dick, more suspicious, decided it was only the lull before the storm, and on the Monday he found his suspicions verified. The hurricane burst, and resulted in a forlorn little maiden bathed in tears, and a boy whose heart burned within him at the remembrance of cruel words and unjust accusations.

"I say, Win," he cried, coming forward into the room and leaning his elbows on the table with careless disregard to elegance of attitude, "what a miserable object you look! for all the world like a drowned rat. Can't you dry those weeping eyes and speak to a fellow for a few minutes? It is dreadful being treated to a regular shower-bath in this cold weather," and Dick tried to conjure up the faintest glimmer of a smile to the dolorous countenance.

Winnie wailed: "O Dick, I was so happy; and now everything is wrong. Mamma says she is very much displeased with me, and—" but here sobs choked the little plaintive voice, and rendered the latter part of the sentence quite unintelligible.

Her brother's lips curled.

"Win," he said impressively, "you're a good little creature, and the mother is fond of you. In a few days she will forget all this annoyance, and things will go on with you as smoothly as before; but I am different. I shall never be able to blot out of my heart the words the governor" (Dick's usual name for his father) "said to me this morning,—never so long as I live. It was not only about this affair—that I could have stood—but he raked up all my sins and shortcomings from the days when I was a little boy, and heaped them, one after the other, on the top of my devoted head. I was bad, stupid, and awkward—the disgrace of the school, and the butt of my companions. He was perfectly ashamed of me, and so on." Dick's eyes were flaming. "But I tell you, Win, what it is: the crisis has come, and I'll do something desperate."

His sister's tears overflowed again. "I hate crying, I do indeed," she said, scrubbing her cheeks viciously at every fresh outburst; "but the nasty little trickly drops will come. Dick, dear old boy, I'm sorry for you; will you not be sorry for me too? Just listen: I am never to have Nellie for my friend again. She must never come here, and I must never go and see Aunt Judith any more."

Dick looked up in amazement. "Why not, Win? What has all that to do with your conduct towards Ada?"

"I don't know," with another quiver of the lips. "Mamma spoke about Nellie first, asking where she lived, and if her aunts worked in any way. Of course I told her simply what I knew, and then she said all our friendship must end now; she would never have allowed Nellie to be invited to our party had she known so much about her before."

"But dear me, Win," interrupted the boy impatiently, "the mother consented when you asked to spend that afternoon at Dingle Cottage some time ago. Why should she turn round and condemn the friendship now?"

"Oh, I can explain that easily. Mamma was hurrying to go out with Clare and Edith when I begged permission, and said yes without making any inquiries; but she scarcely spoke to Nellie on Friday evening, and I cannot understand what has made her so angry all at once."

"Did she say anything against Nellie personally?"

"No; but she is not in my position in life, and I must not make a friend and confidante of her. We may speak at school of course, but that is all," and Winnie's grief burst out afresh at this point.

Dick meditated.

"I wonder," he said at length, a slow light dawning in his eyes, "if Ada Irvine can have been putting the mother up to this? It would be quite in keeping with some of her low dodges."

Winnie shook her head. "I thought so myself at first, but mamma led me to believe otherwise. She says Ada is such a sweet, amiable girl, and much more suitable in every way than Nellie for a friend. I fired up at that, however, and declared I hated Ada, adding she was a sneak, and did horrible things at school."

"Oh, you would give her true character to the mother, I have no doubt," put in Dick with twinkling eyes; "but the question is, 'What was the effect?'"

"'I was prejudiced—and no one is faultless in this world.'"

A short period of silence followed, during which Winnie wept copiously, and Dick sat beating a tattoo on the table.

"You'll soon have no eyes left," he observed practically, as the little drenched handkerchief was again brought into use to wipe away the flowing tears. "Cheer up, Win, old girl, and don't look as if your grandmother had died half an hour ago."

"But you do not know the worst of it yet, Dick," cried the girl, raising her tear-stained face and speaking in heart-breaking tones. "I promised Nellie I would come and spend one afternoon with her during the holidays, and now I can't get. Oh! I wish so much to go."

"Then do so," replied Dick doggedly. "There's no great harm in that; and after all, what reward does one receive for being conscientious and obedient?"

His sister looked aghast. "I dare not," she whispered; "mamma would be so angry. And yet—if I might go only this once."

Dick being in anything but a filial mood said decidedly, "There's no use in whining and moaning, Win. You can spend Wednesday afternoon at Dingle Cottage if you wish, without any one in the house finding that out. Edith and Clare are away from home; Algy and Tom never trouble about us; and both the mother and governor will be spending that entire day with the Harveys at Springfield. As for nurse and the servants, I'll manage them."

"Let me think," replied Winnie. She leaned forward towards the table, drooped her head slowly on her little white hands, and then the struggle began—the struggle between good and evil, between the paths of right and wrong.

"Just this once," she murmured yearningly—"only this once;" and as she strove and wrestled inwardly, it seemed as if two figures stole silently to her side and stood with earnest eyes watching the weary battle. "I'll never do it again," she muttered, "but—only to say good-bye;" and at this the dark figure smiled triumphantly, while the white, spotless one listened with saddening eyes.

This was no mean struggle in which Winnie was engaged. Many a one had fallen under a lesser temptation; for a visit to Aunt Judith meant much, oh so much, to her. There was something in the atmosphere of Dingle Cottage that raised the young girl to a loftier, purer standard; something that made her yearn after what was good and holy, and stirred up the childish heart to reach after the things which belong unto our peace. She would never feel so again. How could she, when there was none to guide her in the paths of right—none to tell how she might weave a golden sunshine into her life, and leave lingering tracks of light behind her? All these thoughts passed through her childish brain as she sat with low bowed head and aching heart, thinking and struggling, oh so wearily. At length the contest was ended; and turning to Dick with a look of firm determination on her face, Winnie said briefly, "I will go." So the struggle was over, and the dark figure reigned triumphant, while the white-robed one stole weeping away.

"Write and let Nellie know then," replied Dick, preparing to leave the room. "I am going off to skate with Archie Trollope, and can post your letter on my way to the pond if you choose."

Winnie opened her desk—a birthday gift—and her heart smote her as she wrote in a crude, girlish hand:—

"December 27th, 18—.

"MY DEAR NELLIE,—I shall come and spend Wednesday afternoon with you all at Dingle Cottage. If suitable, do not trouble replying to this scribble.—

Your loving friend, WINNIE M. BLAKE."

"There," she said, sealing the envelope and handing it to her brother, "I have written; and you—you will come for me at night, Dick."

"Of course I shall, Win," answered the boy, looking down with wistful, loving eyes on his favourite sister, "and we shall have a jolly time for once. Put all gloomy thoughts aside, old girl, and let us be happy while we may." With that he treated her to a rough, hearty embrace, making teasing remarks at the same time about boiled gooseberry eyes and swollen lids; then giving one parting hug, marched out of the room, and a few minutes after the loud clanging of the hall-door intimated that Master Richard Blake had gone out for the day.

The afternoon was spent by Winnie in driving with her step-mother, who tried in many pleasant ways to atone for the morning's harshness; and so well did she succeed that the little girl's heart ached sorely and quailed at the remembrance of the deceit she was practising. But, she would never do it again, no, never again, and only this once could not be such a very great sin.

So the time passed, and Wednesday came at last, a true winter's day, with snow-mantled earth and keen, hard frost.

"Don't be late in coming for me, Dick," was Winnie's parting injunction, as he saw her safely into the 'bus. "I shall expect you soon after tea." And the boy promised.

The little sister looked after him as he strode briskly away. "What a dear, kind brother he is!" she murmured lovingly. "How should I manage without him? Good old Dick. He is all the world to me." And the boy, tramping along the slippery streets with giant steps, was muttering—"Poor Win! she will fret very much at first, and I shall miss her sorely; but it can't be helped—I must run away."

Meanwhile the 'bus, whirling rapidly through the busy streets, stopped in due time at Broomhill Road, and Winnie, alighting with flushed, expectant face, found Nellie awaiting her eagerly.

"How good of you to come, dear! and how pretty you look!" she said, kissing her little guest affectionately. "I was so pleased to get your note on Monday evening."

"You cannot guess how glad I am to be here, Nellie," replied Winnie simply, slipping her hand through her friend's arm as they walked rapidly along the quiet road. "Your home seems like an Eden to me, and spending a few hours with you all there one of my greatest pleasures."

After this both tongues went merrily till Dingle Cottage was reached, and Winnie stood once more in the snug parlour, listening to the hearty welcomes which fell so pleasantly on her ears. The tiny home wore its usual air of cosy comfort, and the faces of its inmates seemed positively to shine with happiness and content. Aunt Debby's chubby countenance was all aglow, and Aunt Meg's peevish visage, having apparently caught the reflex of her smile, looked very fair and sweet as the invalid turned it brightly towards the youthful visitor.

"A thousand welcomes, child!" cried Miss Deborah delightedly, drawing Winnie to her ample bosom, and treating the girl to a hearty hug (the word, though not eloquent, is singularly expressive); "it is good to see your pretty face again. This is Aunt Meg," pointing to the invalid. "I do not think you have ever met her before." Then Winnie was obliged to cross over to the sofa and shake the thin white hand that looked so small and fragile.

"Is your brother coming for you at night, dear?" inquired Miss Latimer, turning from her seat by the window and giving the young guest a tender, loving glance in answer to a certain wistful look cast in her direction.

"Oh yes; he promised," replied Winnie assuredly. Then with a little burst of vehemence—"Dear Aunt Judith, I wish to enjoy myself so very, very much to-day, and be ever so happy."

All looked startled at the passion in the girl's voice, with the exception of Aunt Debby, who viewed everything in a practical light.

"So, so! very good indeed," she said, knitting industriously, and with added vigour. "We'll do our best to gratify your wish, child; and one ought to be specially happy at this season of the year, I suppose."

The talk then became general, and Aunt Meg, laying aside her fretful voice for the time being, wakened up and became the life of the small party, chatting in such a pretty, graceful manner, and seeming altogether so full of animation, that Winnie wondered if this could really be the cross, peevish invalid Nellie had so often described. Ere long, however, she learned that appearances are sometimes deceitful, and that a gentle face and plaintive air can often be assumed as occasion warrants. It so happened that just as Miss Deborah was preparing to see about the tea the postman's knock sounded at the door, and one of the dear home-letters was handed to Nellie.

"Please excuse me," she said to Winnie, breaking the seal and commencing to read; "the children have been ill with scarlet fever, and I am anxious to know if they are better."

The sheets were large and closely written, consequently some little time was spent over them; but at length the last word was read, and then Nellie, replacing the letter in its envelope, said with a happy smile, "Mother writes the little ones are improving daily, and she thinks they will soon be quite well. She sends you all her love, and is glad to hear Aunt Meg is feeling so much stronger. She hopes, if the improvement continues, to see either you, Aunt Judith, or Aunt Debby home with me in the summer-time."

The invalid's face darkened, and Miss Deborah's merry orbs twinkled ominously. Nothing suited Miss Margaret better than to pose as a saintly sufferer, burdened day by day with a weary load of never-ceasing pain. It was wonderfully pleasant at times to assume the role of the patient martyr, and talk of lonely days and nights borne without murmuring. But once hint at any visible improvement, once mention an increase of colour on the pallid cheeks or a clearer light in the dimmed eyes, and Aunt Meg's wrath knew no bounds. Having fathomed this secret in the invalid's nature, we can readily understand the twinkle lurking in Aunt Debby's orbs as she scented the coming storm.

"Who told you I was feeling better, Nellie?" demanded Miss Margaret; and Winnie started at the anger in the voice, only a few minutes since so soft and gentle. "Who gave you authority to utter—to write such a falsehood? Better!" (with infinite scorn), "and my poor frame racked with such excruciating pain. Do you imagine, because a load is borne with unmurmuring patience, that the weight is gradually lessening and the burden will soon be lifted? Answer me at once. Who dared to tell you I was much stronger?"

Nellie's amazement was extreme, but she replied quietly, while Winnie sat by Miss Latimer's side, every fibre of her mischievous nature quivering with thorough enjoyment. "I only said what I believed to be true, Aunt Meg. You have been looking better, and I heard Aunt Judith telling a lady the other week that there was a very marked improvement lately, and that she was thankful to be able to say so."

Miss Margaret cast a withering glance at Miss Latimer's quiet face.

"That is all in a piece with the rest of Judith's stinginess," she observed sneeringly. "I know only too well why she speaks of being thankful. Were I to regain my wonted strength, there would naturally be less nourishing food required and fewer doctor's bills. Oh! I only wish I could honestly say I feel a daily increase of health; but, alas! the very thought of being a heavy burden and viewed in the light of a constant nuisance helps to weaken and keep me low."

At this point Nellie drew Winnie towards the window and tried to engage her in conversation; while Aunt Debby, lowering her voice, muttered, audibly enough, however, for the girls to hear, "Don't make a fool of yourself, Meg, and talk such utter rubbish."

The invalid's rage increased, and she was about to make some rejoinder, when Miss Latimer interposed. "Hush, Margaret," said the quiet, gentle voice; "for my sake do not speak so before the children. You know perfectly well, dear, you are wilfully misinterpreting my words. I am only too happy to be able to gladden your life in any way."

But the invalid refused to be pacified.

"Ah! I understand you, Judith. You do not wish to have your true character exposed to the public. It suits you to pose as the saint abroad, I suppose, and—" but here Miss Latimer interrupted her.

"Margaret," she replied firmly, "you must either be silent or leave the room. I cannot listen to such conversation in the presence of our guest; and if you refuse to comply one way or the other, I shall be obliged to send the girls into my study."

"Oh no! not at all," returned Aunt Meg, her voice suddenly assuming the most plaintive, martyr-like tone; "the house does not belong to me.—Debby, will you assist me to my bedroom? and—no, Judith, I could not think of troubling you; but perhaps Nellie would help her poor aunt for once."

Now all this time Winnie had been enjoying the tragic scene immensely, and shaking inwardly with suppressed laughter, greatly to Nellie's distress.

"Oh, be quiet, Win; she will hear you," whispered the girl hurriedly, as a low ripple of laughter was hastily smothered by a mock cough. But the warning came too late. Aunt Meg caught the choking sound and in a moment the saintly expression on her face gave place to one of intense rage and indignation. This sudden transformation was too much for Winnie's risible faculties. The whole affair struck her in such a comical light that she lost all control over herself, and, with a wild burst of stifled laughter fled hastily from the parlour to Nellie's bedroom, where that young lady quickly followed.

"Close the door—close the door, Nell!" gasped Winnie, holding her handkerchief to her mouth and vainly endeavouring to suppress the laughter. "I know it's dreadfully wicked to behave in this manner, but I can't help myself," and off the child went again; while Nellie, unable to resist, joined in the merry peal. When both stopped at length, the tears were running down their cheeks, at the sight of which Winnie nearly repeated the performance. "This is awful," she panted, wiping her eyes and fanning her hot cheeks violently; "but when I begin to laugh I must just continue till I have emptied all the laughter out of me: then I am all right. No, Nellie, do not go away yet; wait till I am quite calm."

Before Nellie could reply, Aunt Debby opened the door, and looking in shook her head admonishingly. "I should like to know if you are not both ashamed of yourselves," she said severely; but there was laughter lurking in her eyes and playing about the corners of her lips which belied the severity of her words. Winnie jumped up, and throwing her arms round the good lady's neck, replied, "I have been very rude and naughty, dear Miss Deborah; but indeed I did not mean any harm," and she held up her rosy mouth for a kiss of pardon.

"There, there, it's all right, child. I understand. Come down to the parlour now; tea is ready." And with that, active, cheery Aunt Debby trotted away, leaving the two culprits to follow at their leisure.



CHAPTER XI.

"IT IS SO HARD TO SAY GOOD-BYE."

When Nellie and Winnie re-entered the parlour they found the table spread, Aunt Debby seated as usual before the urn, and Miss Latimer standing by the window gazing up at the murky sky, where the leaden clouds predicted a gathering snowstorm. Winnie ran up to her. "Aunt Judith," she said humbly, "I am very much ashamed of myself; please forgive me."

Miss Latimer patted the upraised face, and the pained look died out of her eyes. "Never mind, child," she replied pleasantly; "it is all right. I understand" (as the girl still looked anxious); "I know you had no thought of grieving us."

So the subject was dropped, and once more they gathered round the simple board whereon every dainty was displayed with such charming taste. There, tongues loosened and the merry chatting recommenced, while Winnie's spirits rose wonderfully. Putting from her with a strong determined will every sad thought and the burden of grief so new for her to bear, she laughed and talked, the gayest of the gay—speaking in her own quaint style, and laughing her own clear ripple of silvery laughter.

After tea Miss Latimer called her into the cosy study, and bidding her seat herself snugly, she said: "Aunt Debby requires Nellie's assistance for a short time at present, so you will have to endure an old maid's company meanwhile; but before we settle ourselves to enjoy a nice, cosy chat, I wish you to accept a Christmas gift from me. It is my latest work, and I only received the first copies yesterday. I have written your name on the title-page, and I think, dear, you will value the little volume for my sake." As she spoke Aunt Judith handed a small book, beautifully bound in blue and gold, to her young visitor, who received it at first in speechless silence. She looked at the pretty volume—the elegant binding and clear, bold type; then with a great cry flung herself down by Miss Latimer's side and sobbed out, "Oh, I love you so, you are so kind to me; and it is so hard to say good-bye."

Aunt Judith seemed amazed. "I do not understand you, child," she said simply. "What do you mean? Try to calm yourself and explain, dear."

Then between sobs the story of a child's grief was laid before Miss Latimer, and told with such a depth of pathos that the listener's soft womanly heart ached in response to the plaintive tale.

"And your mother does not know you are here to-day, Winnie?" she inquired when the sad little voice had ceased. "You had no permission from her to come?"

The girl shook her head. "I suppose I am very disobedient," was the simple answer; "but, Aunt Judith, the temptation was too hard to resist. I felt I must see you all again, even though it was only to say good-bye."

Miss Latimer sighed. "You must not come any more, dear, never after to-night—at least not until your mother gives her full, free consent. You think all this very hard, little Winnie, but you do not know how deeply I feel about it also. You had stolen into my heart, child, and I was beginning to find your love very sweet and precious—not that I shall love you less or cease to care for you, but all this pleasant social intercourse must end now. Nay, do not grieve so, darling. It is all very dark and perplexing to you at present perhaps; but rest assured God has some beautiful lessons for us to learn—lessons that will give us a glimpse of, and may yet prove as stepping-stones to, that higher life which is the only life worth living."

Winnie sighed despairingly. "Aunt Judith," she said, raising a pair of wet eyes full of a child's agony to the listener's face, "I shall never be good now. You do not know the pleasure it has been to me to come here, or the strange thoughts that fill my heart when I see how happy you all are in this dear little home. Somehow God seems very near here, Aunt Judith, and the Christ-life you talk about so beautiful, I go away determined to try to lead it too—to be good, brave, and true. But that is all over now; for oh! no one in my home speaks of God and heaven, or talks softly of Jesus and his love, and I can't be good if none will stretch out a helping hand and show me the way."

Miss Latimer drew the little quivering figure closer in her embrace as she answered, "Don't say that, child, don't say that. A human friend often leads astray—God never. We must not rest our entire confidence on human guides, or lean altogether on earthly props, but, holding out our hands to the great Father above, with all the simplicity of little children, leave ourselves unreservedly in his keeping. Sometimes the way is dark—so dark, dear" (and the gentle voice faltered for a moment), "sometimes the path proves rugged and steep; but, little Winnie,—

'The easy path in the lowlands hath little of grand or new, But a toilsome ascent leads on to a wide and glorious view; Peopled and warm is the valley, lonely and chill the height, But the peak that is nearer the storm cloud is nearer the stars of light.'

And so, dear, in the time of shadow rest in the hollow of God's hand, and Christ himself will help you to lead his own perfect life."

The conversation at this point being interrupted by the arrival of Dick, Miss Latimer found no opportunity of renewing it that evening; but while Winnie, who had once more dashed the tears from her eyes with a child's abandonment of grief, was busily engaged with Miss Deborah and Nellie, she drew the boy aside, and with his aid was able to gather together the scattered threads of his sister's disconnected story.

Dick could not very well understand how, but there was something about Aunt Judith which seemed to inspire confidence; and although Miss Latimer with delicate tact retrained from asking more than was absolutely necessary, the boy found himself laying bare his heart quite unintentionally, and ended by confessing his determination to run away to sea. "I must go," he finished doggedly; "I can't stand this kind of life any longer, and—I won't."

Miss Latimer looked very grave.

"I have no right to interfere, Dick," she said quietly, "and perhaps I should scarcely have listened to your story; but from what has been told me and my own eyes have seen, I thought Winnie's brother one who would scorn to do a cowardly, dishonourable action."

The boy looked amazed at the strong, emphatic language; while Aunt Judith, nothing daunted, continued,—

"Yes, it is perfectly true, Dick. You see I do not fear to speak as I think, and such a course as you purpose pursuing seems to me both mean and sinful. Running away—stealing out of your father's house like a thief in the night; try to picture it fully, clearly to yourself, and then let me hear your verdict once again. You talk of always having longed for a sailor's life; you speak about the great attraction of the sea. Well, that in itself is good; but why go forth to it in the way you are contemplating? Have you ever spoken to your father on the subject?"

"Never," replied Dick; "but my step-mother and sisters knew all about it."

"And what was their verdict?"

"Laughter, and the information that I was too great a stupid to be a sailor." The boy's tones were very bitter.

Miss Latimer scanned the honest, open face, and replied,—

"Well, Dick, we hardly know each other yet, and it may be you will denounce me as an interfering old maid; but if I may proffer my advice, I would say, Lay your heart bare before your father, tell him simply what your desire is; and if after that he says 'Go,' then God's blessing follow you, my dear boy."

She rose as she spoke, and crossing the room joined the group chatting so pleasantly together, while Dick remained quietly in his seat. But there sprang up in the boy's heart that night a pure, holy feeling of respect, almost amounting to veneration, for all women who, like Miss Latimer, kept their garments white and unsullied in this evil world, and stood up so bravely in the cause of truth and right. He never forgot the soft, tender voice or the warm pressure of the hand as she reasoned with him; but thinking it all over in the still night-hush, he determined to win her approbation, and carve out for himself a noble life.

The evening passed by very rapidly for both Winnie and Dick, and at length it was time to say good-bye.

Nellie and Miss Deborah, being still in ignorance as to the course events had taken, wondered at the child's low sob when Miss Latimer kissed her, and marvelled even more at her strange conduct in running down the garden path immediately after, without pausing to bid one and all her usual merry good-night. But the explanation was soon made; and then Aunt Debby's indignation blazed forth, while Nellie listened in simple amazement to the strange tale.

"The very idea, Judith!" gasped the good lady, shaking her head with such vehemence that all the little curls in front danced and coquetted with one another; "just as if we would contaminate the child, or were so very much her inferiors. Dear heart! I declare the news has given me quite a turn—it is so absurd."

"I think we had better drop the subject altogether, Debby," replied Miss Latimer. "Nellie, I know, will respect her aunts' wishes, and act as we think best.—Will you not, my child?"

"Of course, auntie," murmured Nellie faintly; "but I don't quite understand. Why could Winnie come here with full permission one day and be forbidden the next? I know," she continued bitterly—"at least it is not Ada Irvine's fault if I do not—that I am very much Winnie's inferior in many ways; but still Mrs. Blake knew all that before." Here Nellie burst into tears, for she was only human, and wounded pride and vanity mingled with genuine grief at the loss of her friend.

"Comfort her yourself, Judith," muttered Aunt Debby, meditating a rapid exit to the kitchen. "If I begin, I shall be sure to be saying something spiteful and wicked, for my temper is at boiling-point just now," and with that the good lady disappeared to the humbler regions, there to vent her indignation in violent washing up of unoffending cups and saucers.

Meanwhile Nellie had her evening talk, but for once it failed to soothe her wounded feelings; and when she lay down on her soft warm bed, she carried with her bitter, angry thoughts which chased the slumber from her eyes and the rest from her heart. She could not understand why Mrs. Blake should put an end so suddenly to her intimacy with Winnie; and Aunt Judith either could not or would not throw one single ray of light on the subject. The whole story would leak out at school, and what a time would follow! Nellie writhed inwardly at the awful prospect, and wept bitterly, till at length, thoroughly worn out, she fell fast asleep, and the silent passing hours ushered in the dawn of another new day.



CHAPTER XII.

"I ALWAYS SPEAK AS I THINK."

The Christmas holidays were over now, and once more governesses and pupils were busy giving and receiving instruction in Mrs. Elder's Select Establishment for Young Ladies. A few scholars still remained absent, reluctant perhaps to come back to hard work after three weeks' ease and gaiety; and amongst the list of truants was the name of Winnifred Blake, whose blithe little face had been like a ray of sunlight in the dingy school-room. "Confined to the house through indisposition," Mrs. Elder explained to each anxious inquirer after the tiny favourite. "Nothing serious; only a cold caught during holiday-time." But the days passed by, and still no Winnie appeared.

Nellie had never seen or heard of her since that night at Dingle Cottage when they had laughed so heartily together over poor Aunt Meg and her infirmities; and she felt the separation keenly. At first the other school-mates plied her with questions regarding Winnie's absence, all of which she was unable to answer or parry successfully; and so by degrees, and the help of Ada's sarcastic tongue, the secret oozed out, and Nellie's star paled accordingly. The poisoned shaft of carefully-veiled words struck home with new power: there was no Winnie to whom to turn for sympathy, and so the old cross had to be taken up again and carried day after day. Some of the girls sided sensibly with Nellie, and tried to make school-life pleasant to her; but they were unfortunately in the minority, and often got snubbed and censured by the others for their kindness.

One afternoon, however, as Nellie was wending her way home from school, a hand was laid on her shoulder, while an honest, kindly voice said suddenly in her ear, "Well, it is good to get a peep at you again, Nell. How are you?" and Dick's freckled face shone down on the rosy one by his side.

The girl looked up with a happy smile. "O Dick!" she gasped; and then it seemed as if words failed her, and she stood simply holding his hand, and gazing with such genuine happiness into his eyes that the boy laughed outright.

"What's up, Nell?" he inquired teasingly. "I declare such evident admiration makes me feel quite bashful."

Nellie gave a little soft smile. "Don't be a tease, Dick," she said; "I am only so pleased to see you and hear about Winnie."

Dick placed his hand on his heart and bowed. "The pleasure is mutual," he began; but receiving an energetic shake of the arm he continued, "Oh, Win will soon be all right. She's been croaking like a raven for the last fortnight or so, but is almost well now."

"When did she catch cold?"

Dick lowered his voice. "Coming home that night from Dingle Cottage. We missed the 'bus—walked—and Win caught a chill."

"Was she very ill?"

"Oh no; but the doctor would not allow her to go out or even run from one room to the other, so she has been cooped up in the oak parlour all this time."

"Tell her I am very sorry, and she is to accept my dear love. Will you, Dick?" and Nellie looked pleadingly up in the boy's kindly face.

"That I shall" (with emphasis). "And, here, I may as well give you a piece of information, Nell. This is Wednesday—on Saturday afternoon I sail for Calcutta."

Nellie stared. "What do you mean?" she cried in bewilderment.

"Precisely what I say, my dear girl," replied the wild boy, vastly enjoying her amazement. "Perhaps you'll never see me any more, so do a little weep—no, not here," as Nellie out of mischief slipped her hand into her pocket; "we should have a crowd round us in no time if you did, but in the—ahem!—privacy of your own room;" and Dick's eyes sparkled.

"Calcutta! Does that mean you are going to be a sailor after all? O Dick, have you gained your wish at last? I am so glad for your sake."

Human sympathy is very sweet. Dick's face beamed as he answered, "Yes, Nell; the governor has given his consent. It was not so very difficult to obtain after all" (a trifle sarcastically), "therefore I'm off on Saturday."

"What is Winnie saying to all this?"

The boy's face saddened a little.

"Win's a brick," he replied enthusiastically; "she never says anything about herself, but talks of all the different countries I shall see, and hopes no harm will befall me. Dear little Win!" Dick's voice was very tender as he spoke.

A silence followed, then the boy held out his hand. "Well, Nell, I must say good-bye now. I'm on an errand of importance, and dare not delay. Don't quite forget me, and be good to Winnie. There—ta-ta!" and away sped Dick before Nellie had time to utter a single word.

About two hours afterwards he re-entered his own home, and made straight for the oak parlour, chuckling to himself at the thought of Winnie's delight when he told her his conversation with Nellie. But disappointments sometimes accompany our enjoyments, and Dick's bright anticipations of a quiet hour with his favourite sister received a decided check; for on nearing the door, which was slightly ajar, he heard the murmur of voices, and peering in cautiously saw, to his great dismay, Mrs. Blake and Winnie entertaining no less honourable a visitor than Miss Irvine. Dick smiled derisively at the tones of the carefully-modulated voice, and ground his strong, white teeth on detecting the malicious spite lurking under pretty sentences full of apparent kindliness.

"I must apologize, Winnie, for not calling and inquiring after your health before this," Ada was saying as Dick approached; "but I have been assuming the role of an invalid myself lately, and Mrs. Elder would not allow me to venture out of doors till I was thoroughly convalescent."

Mrs. Blake looked affectionately at her young visitor. "I did not know you were unwell, my dear. Are you quite recovered now?"

"Yes, thank you; but there was not very much wrong with me, dear Mrs. Blake, only a slight touch of cold in the throat. Mrs. Elder is so careful, however, I am sure I owe her a debt of gratitude I shall never be able to repay." Then turning to Winnie, Ada continued with a pretty show of anxiety, "I was very sorry to hear of your illness, Win. How did you manage to catch such a severe cold?"

"That is what I cannot tell," interrupted Mrs. Blake, feeling inclined to shake her naughty little step-daughter for her sullen behaviour towards this amiable young visitor. "I happened to be from home one day during the Christmas holidays, and on my return found Winnie coughing dreadfully and quite fevered with cold."

Ada meditated a few seconds. "I wonder," she said at length, in slow, deliberate tones, "if your illness dated from that afternoon you spent at Dingle Cottage almost a month ago? I was visiting an old woman, a former nurse of mine, who lives in the house opposite, that same day, and remember perfectly seeing you and Miss Latimer standing together at one of the windows."

"Surely you must have been mistaken, my dear. Winnie never visits at Dingle Cottage now," Mrs. Blake interposed unconsciously.

"Perhaps, but I hardly think so. However" (with a look of the utmost innocence), "Winnie will be able to solve that riddle," and the spiteful girl turned towards her sick friend and awaited the reply.

Winnie's cheeks were burning, and the great eyes full of a withering contempt. Raising them calmly to her visitor's placid face, and without a trembling of the proud young lips, she answered quietly,—"Your surmise was correct, Ada. I did spend an afternoon lately at Dingle Cottage; and I am afraid, as you so kindly hinted before, that my cold dated from that night."

Mrs. Blake was angry, very angry indeed, but too well bred to show her annoyance before her visitor. She changed the subject with ready tact, and made a most fascinating hostess; while Winnie sat in dead silence, with a great scowl disfiguring her pretty face, and Dick danced his displeasure on the door-mat.

After a short time Ada rose to leave, and holding out a daintily-gloved hand to her sullen companion, said sweetly, "Good-bye, Winnie. I trust you will soon be better; and if I can possibly find leisure for another visit, rest assured I shall drop in on you some day soon."

"Pray, don't," replied Winnie, wilfully disregarding her step-mother's look of heavy displeasure. "Your visit has not afforded me such a vast amount of pleasure that I could wish its repetition at an early date. We never were friends, Ada" (with ungoverned passion), "never so long as I can remember. You hate me, and I—I detest you; why, then, will you persist in assuming a friendship that has no foundation?"

Dick's war-dance continued with greater vigour at this point, while Mrs. Blake in haughtiest tones said to Winnie, "How dare you insult Miss Irvine in this manner? Apologize at once, I command you."

Ada's face, as she turned it towards her hostess, wore a sweet, patient look, with just the tiniest flicker of pain about the curves of the perfect lips. "Please, do not blame Winnie too severely, Mrs. Blake," she pleaded mildly; "her words are to some extent true, but I—" and the lids drooped slowly over the lovely eyes, while a faint flush tinged the delicate cheeks—"I was trying to turn over a new leaf and gain Winnie's love."

"My eye, what a cram!" muttered Dick from behind the door. "Oh, but she acts the hypocrite capitally. Now then for Win's happy reply. It will be both sweet and original, I prophesy, for the little monkey is bristling all over like an insulted hedgehog. Here goes!" and the boy's ear was once more applied cautiously to the keyhole.

Winnie had risen by this time, and was confronting her adversary with a look almost capable of annihilating a less daring foe than Ada Irvine. Quite undaunted by the fear of future punishment, and recognizing only the great wrong this girl was doing her, she said, "I think you are a female Judas, Ada, and your true character will come to light some day. I know—" but Winnie got frightened at the awful look in Mrs. Blake's eyes, and stopped short, while Ada took refuge in tears.

"Come away, my dear," said her hostess, leading her gently from the room; "Winnie is not herself today. When the child is in a passion her language is uncontrollable; but I shall see she sends you a proper apology for her rudeness."

Dick heard no more, having to slip away at that moment and hide behind one of the statues in the passage during the exit of his step-mother with the weeping Niobe; but when the sound of their footsteps had died away in the distance, he rushed into the oak parlour, and seizing Winnie round the waist, treated her to several convulsive hugs and various exclamations of supreme delight.

"Well, old girl, you did the thing first-rate," he panted, throwing himself into a chair and rubbing his hands vigorously together. "You deserve to be commended, Win. Dear heart, as Aunt Debby says, what a tongue somebody has!"

"I don't care," pouted Winnie, endeavouring to straighten her sash, which Dick had been using as a handle during the hugging process; "I only said what was true, and would repeat it all over again if she cared to listen."

"Bravo! what a hard heart the girl possesses! Cold as an icicle, too, not to melt under the influence of such dewy tears shed from—ahem!—'sweetest eyes were ever seen.'"

"Crocodile tears!" (with scorn.) "I don't know how she managed to squeeze them up. I never saw Ada Irvine weep before. As for apologizing, I won't, no matter what happens."

"Perhaps your gentle friend had an onion hidden within the folds of her—mouchoir. See how nicely I can speak French. You remember, in the story of Beauty and the Beast, how the wicked sisters rubbed their eyes with onions to 'pretend' they were weeping." Dick's eyes were dancing as he spoke.

Winnie's indignation, however, would admit of no reply, and she sat silently, like a little bird with its plumage all ruffled; while her brother, stretched lazily opposite, gazed on the angry face and soliloquized accordingly.

"Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity,"

quoth the incorrigible boy. "Come, Win, be magnanimous for once and forgive. Think what it would be to bask continually in the sunshine of the lovely Ada's smiles. But there—poor little bird! did I stroke its pretty feathers all the wrong way, and make it very cross?"

How much more Dick would have said remains a mystery, for Mrs. Blake interrupted the interesting conversation by her entrance, and commanded him to leave the room.

"I'll take possession of the door-mat once again," he decided, giving Winnie an encouraging look as he passed out. "Eavesdropping is a low, mean thing, I know; but Win may require my assistance, and altogether it's as well I should be on the spot."

There is no need to describe the conversation that ensued between Mrs. Blake and her troublesome step-daughter. The good lady was justified in her displeasure at Winnie's daring disobedience; but her words were cold, cruel words, little calculated to inspire the love and confidence of a warm, tender-hearted child. She would listen to no expostulations, she refused to reason; her commands must be obeyed; Winnie would never dare to set her laws at defiance again; and at the close of the session she would be transferred to another school. As regarded Ada, she must write a humble apology, and in the future show that sweet, amiable girl every respect.

Winnie stoutly refused (Dick chuckled with delight), and Mrs. Blake's anger waxed stronger at the little rebel. She meditated for a few seconds on the best method of punishment, and then said coldly,—"I shall say nothing further in the meantime, Winnie, concerning your flagrant act of disobedience in connection with Miss Latimer. When you feel truly penitent, and confess your sorrow, I shall be pleased to accept your apology; but I insist on a letter being written to Miss Irvine now. One hour is at your disposal, and if at the end of that period I return and find you still obdurate, then to-morrow's pleasure is cancelled,—you will not be allowed, as promised, to see over Dick's ship." With that Mrs. Blake left the room, and Winnie was left to solitude and reflection.

For a long time she sat firmly determined to suffer anything rather than yield. Her young heart burned with anger and pride—she hated everybody and everything; but in the end love for Dick conquered, and the required note was written.

"I don't mean one single word of all that scribble," she cried, pitching the letter to the other end of the room. "I hate to humble myself, so I do, and I should like to say all sorts of horrid things to Ada Irvine; but I can't give up to-morrow's treat, and I wish to see as much of my dear old Dick as possible. Wait till I get back to school, however, and there will be fun." Winnie's face brightened at the thought, and the old mischievous smile came back to her lips. After all there was a good amount of wicked enjoyment to be derived from having an enemy.



CHAPTER XIII.

OUR SAILOR BOY.

If one had peeped into the oak parlour on Thursday evening, one would naturally have imagined the room to be untenanted, save for the presence of a little white dog curled in peaceful slumber on the rug; but had the heavy folds of curtain been withdrawn, they would have disclosed to view the form of a young lady nestling back in the window embrasure, with two soft white hands folded wearily on her lap. The night was cold, but bright with moonlight; and the stars peeping in at the window, the blind of which was drawn up to the top, whispered together of the fairy picture she made with the moonbeams straying over her quiet, thoughtful face, and playing hide-and-seek amongst the meshes of her dark glossy hair.

"How pretty she looks!" they murmured softly, sparkling down their twinkling lights on the frost-gemmed city below. But the little stars failed to notice the weary look of discontent and dissatisfaction on that fair face, which marred all the beauty of the fairy picture.

She had left the gay drawing-room and fashionable company under plea of a headache, and finding the oak parlour untenanted, had hidden herself snugly behind the curtains. But Edith Blake's headache had evidently merged into a heartache; for it was a weary, weary face that turned from the window as approaching footsteps warned her of some one's intrusion. Drawing aside the ruby folds and peering out cautiously, the girl saw Winnie enter and go straight towards the fire, where she proceeded to ensconce herself snugly on the rug, and lift the little white dog into her lap.

"Poor little doggie!" she said, stroking the affectionate animal, which was licking its mistress's gentle hand; "poor Puck! you'll have to love me very much after Dick goes away. I like to be loved, doggie; but no one in this house believes in love except my dear boy, and it is lonely when not a single creature cares, for you. I should like to enjoy a good cry, Puck; but I must not make Dick sad, and it is a baby-fashion to cry when things go wrong and you can't get what you wish. But, oh dear! whatever shall I do after my dear good boy is gone away?"

"Write long letters and think of him every day," put in a blithe, merry voice at the door; and Winnie sprang up with a cry of delight as Dick strode into the room attired in all the splendour of his new uniform.

"How do I look, Win?" he cried, touching his cap, and standing in all the pride of his young, bright strength, ready to be admired. "Am I respectable?"

But he need hardly have asked that question, for the little sister's face was all aglow, and her rosy lips laughing a glad, proud smile.

"Respectable!" (with scorn); "why, Richard, you're simply splendid! And oh! you do look every inch a sailor."

"I thought I would let you see me in full uniform before packing up my baggage," said Dick, by way of apology for his childish display. "Look at the brass buttons, Win, and the badge on my cap; they make me feel as if I were a sailor already."

Winnie duly admired.

"I hope you'll have a good voyage, and not find the work too hard," she whispered afterwards, and the boy answered.

"Win," he began impressively, "I intend putting my whole 'shoulder to the wheel.' If I cannot work with the brain, I will strive my very best with hand and heart, and do my duty come what may. I mean to be a true man, and live an honest, upright life, not in order to gain every one's good opinion (though of course I should dearly like that too), but because it is right."

Winnie's eyes were shining. "I told you so," she said, clapping her hands joyously. "You'll be a king amongst men yet. And oh, how proudly our father will some day talk of 'my sailor son!'" The boy's face flushed with pleasure. "But, Dick, you won't care less for me when you become both good and great; will you?" and the pretty voice had a wistful ring in it as Winnie neared the close of her sentence.

"Good! why, you're an angel compared with me, Win," said the boy lovingly; "but we'll both try our best, dear. I'm a great, rough boor of a lad, Win, and you're such a dainty, fairy creature. But think how grand it would be to know that every day you at home and I out on the ocean were striving to do our duty and live as we ought to live. I've been all wrong in the past, I know, and it is little wonder the others don't care much about me; but I mean to strike out afresh and begin all over again. See here, Winnie; this is my farewell gift to you. I thought you would prize it more than anything else," and Dick placed a beautiful pocket Bible in his sister's hands.

Winnie touched the little volume reverently, and the eyes of the listener behind the curtains grew dim as the child's soft voice replied, "I cannot thank you as I would, Dick, for your lovely present; but I love you dearly, dearly. I shall keep it always close beside me, and read a portion every day. Bow down your head, dear boy, and let me kiss you for your goodness."

Dick submitted to the caress, and then invited Winnie up to his room in order to inspect a few presents he had received from some of his school-fellows; and when brother and sister had disappeared, Edith stole softly from her place of concealment, and the dancing fire-flames saw that her eyes were wet with tears.

"I have caught a glimpse of true life to-night," she said, smiling wistfully; "and it has shown me how hollow, hollow is the false one I daily lead. Poor Dick! I am afraid we have misjudged him after all, and may yet find out, as Winnie so confidently prophesies, that he is worthy of all honour and admiration. As for her, she will learn, so far as lies in my power, that love is to be found in the house, although her sailor boy has left the parent nest." Then seating herself in the cosiest-looking chair, she lay back and waited quietly for the return of the owners of the oak parlour.

In the course of half-an-hour they re-appeared, and gazed with wide-open eyes on the fair intruder; but Edith, laughing lazily, bade them come forward and welcome the unexpected guest.

Winnie sprang to her side. "We are both awfully pleased to see you, Edith," she said; "only you surprised us so. Whatever brings you here when there are guests in the drawing-room?"

"I had a headache," replied the elder sister, drawing the little girl close to her side and beginning to toy with the tangled hair; "besides"—looking up at the big, stalwart youth standing near—"I wished to enjoy a little of Dick's society before he goes away."

Dick's face relaxed into a broad grin of unbelief, and Winnie cried out "Oh!" then caught herself and stopped short; but Edith's equanimity remained undisturbed.

"It is quite true," she said with a charming smile. "I see you are in full uniform, Dick. Stand back, and let me admire my sailor brother."

Edith could be very lovable and winning when she liked, and to-night she seemed thoroughly bent on doing her utmost to please. The boy, though mystified at this sudden change in his fashionable sister, obeyed her command, and stood erect before her, feeling perhaps a little bashful, but never flinching under the steady scrutiny.

"You look very well," she said after a little pause. "Sit down, Dick; I wish to speak to you. I know perfectly Winnie is wondering why the cross elder sister is sitting here taking such an interest in you both to-night. But don't ask an explanation for such conduct; only believe that her heart is not so hard as you deem it, and that she has begun to look under the surface for some one's true character."

Winnie gave the speaker's hand a little squeeze of approbation, while a pleased smile lit up Dick's face. As neither spoke, however, Edith continued: "And now, may I crave of you, Dick, a very great favour? Winnie is to be driven down to-morrow afternoon to see through your ship. May I come too? or is she to be the only privileged young lady?"

The boy looked incredulously at his pretty sister. "Are you really in earnest, Edith?" he inquired, "or are you laughing at me?"

"I mean what I say, Dick," was the grave reply; "but if you would rather I remained at home, I shall not trouble you."

"Oh, come! do come!" whispered Winnie delightedly. "Dick will be only too pleased;—will you not, dear old boy?" So it was settled; and Edith rose to leave the cosy room, which seemed to her at that moment like a haven of rest.

"It was very, very good of you to come and spend a wee quiet time with us," said Winnie, as she watched her beautiful sister shaking out her crumpled skirts and pushing back little stray locks of hair from her white forehead. "Do you know we are going to have a great treat to-morrow night? Archie Trollope is coming in; and cook has promised us a delicious supper in honour of Dick's last evening at home."

"I think you ought to give me an invitation," replied Edith, pausing at the doorway. "I should like to enjoy the feast too.—No, no," as Dick and Winnie exchanged doubtful glances; "I was only teasing you both. Accept my best wishes for a happy evening, dears. Good-night;" and then the soft silken figure glided quietly away.

"I'm glad she really did not mean what she said," announced Dick, giving a sigh of relief as he threw himself down on the rug beside Puck and commenced to tease that worthy little animal; "but I think, Win, if we had pressed her she would have come."

"I am sure of it," replied Winnie. "She looked so disappointed when we did not speak. But, Dick, was she not ever so nice to-night? and is she not beautiful?"

"Yes," replied her brother, pulling Puck's tail mischievously; "but we're a good-looking family, Win, with the exception of myself."

The little girl's reply was thoroughly characteristic: "Every house has its ugly duckling, dear boy," she observed quaintly, "and they seldom turn out swans except in story-books. However, it does not matter very much about a man's personal appearance; and you—why, you might have been a great deal worse."

Dick roared at the attempted consolation. "What a Job's comforter you are, Win!" he said with a broad grin; "but as you say, little sister, a man's personal appearance, though it sometimes goes a long way, is not the main thing, and I reckon Dick Blake will manage through the world well enough in spite of freckled skin and fiery hair."