"Can I see her?" asked Mabel.

"I suppose so. I don't know as you can't."

"Be good enough to allow me to pass, then,
if you please," said Mabel, resolutely; for Mrs.
Hutchins stood full in the doorway, and made
no attempt to remove the great pail which helped
to block the passage. The woman drew
aside at once. Mabel's tone of command was
the best she could have adopted for attaining
her purpose: Mrs. Hutchins being one of those
persons whom it is necessary to treat firmly, as
one grasps a nettle. She had a secret contempt
for people who showed her much gentleness or
consideration; perhaps from a modest
consciousness of not being specially entitled to
either; perhaps because her weak and frivolous
character found it agreeable to be compelled
by a superior will, and so to avoid responsibility.
At all events, Mrs. Hutchins did not resent
Mabel's tone, but made way for her to pass,
even with some show of moving the pail of water.

"Don't trouble yourself," said Mabel, lifting
her dress and stepping neatly over the impediment.
In so doing, she displayed a very pretty
little foot, which Mrs. Hutchins did not fail
to notice, and to compare mentally with the
"fairy foot" ascribed to Rosalba of Naples.

"I don't believe her'n could ha' been littler,"
thought Mrs. Hutchins.

"May I go up-stairs? Is it the front room?"

"I'm sorry, miss, as I can't show you the
way; but I happen to be particular engaged
cleaning up, and if I was to wait to take off my
pattins—-"

But before she could finish, Mabel had
thanked her, and was half way up the steep
narrow staircase.

"Now, it beats me," muttered the landlady,
plunging her mop into the dirty water and
vigorously besprinkling the floor with that fluid—
"it beats me how them Trescotts gets hold of
people. There's young Charlewood, belongin'
to one of the first families in Hammerham; and
now this here young girl, quite the lady. Her
clothes is plain, but thorough good every
stitch on 'em. A ‘gentleman of the name of
Trescott.’ Lord, if they should turn out to be
somebody, them Trescotts! Alf, he certainly
do bear the stamp of aristockercy imprinted
legible. What a young rip he is! But Trescott' s
common enough; no heighth about him."

Meanwhile. Mabel had reached the door of the
front room on the first floor, and tapped at it
with her fingers.

"Come in," said a silvery childish treble, and
Mabel entered.

On a mean bed, covered with a patchwork
quilt, lay the pretty little girl whose pale death-like
face, as she had seen it on the day of the
accident, had many times haunted Mabel's
memory. The pretty face was still pale, but no
longer death-like, and it beamed brightly from
among the soft curling tresses scattered over
the pillow. Before her, so as to be within
range of her eyes, was a pile of oblong books,
evidently music-books, supporting a smaller
volume in which the child had been reading.
One hand and arm were still nearly useless;
but she kept the other on her book, holding a
page between her finger and thumb, so as to be
able to turn over without pausing. The room,
though poor, was orderly and decent—more so
than Mabel had expected from the appearance of
Mrs. Hutchins and the comfortless look of the
house. The child herself looked neither squalid
nor neglected.

Little Corda looked up wonderingly at the
unexpected apparition standing in the doorway.

"How do you do, dear?" said Mabel, smiling,
though something undefinably pathetic in the
lonely little figure made the tears brim up into
her eyes at the same time.

"Quite well, thank you, ma'am," returned
Corda, with grave politeness.

"Not quite, quite, well yet, I'm afraid," said
Mabel. "You don't know me. I am a friend
of Mr. Charlewood, who is so kind to you. I
was in that dreadful carriage that ran over you.
May I come and talk to you awhile?"

Mr. Charlewood's name was evidently a passport
to Corda's favour; but, besides that, with
the unerring instinct of an affectionate child,
she felt that the grey eyes looking at her so
kindly were full of real honest sympathy. Her
fair delicate skin flushed a bright, rose colour,
and she smiled back at Mabel; but she was too
shy to be at all demonstrative to a stranger.
So she merely answered, "Yes, if you please;"
and took her thumb and finger from between
the leaves of her book, as a courteous intimation
that she was ready to be talked to.

Mabel sat down by the head of the bed, placing
herself so that the child could see her easily,
and without the necessity of moving.

"You are called Corda, are you not?" began
Mabel, by way of opening the conversation.

"Yes, I'm always called Corda. But my
real name is Cordelia. Cordelia Alice Mary
Trescott."

"And my name is Mabel Earnshaw. Just
Mabel, and nothing else."

"It's a funny name," said Corda; then added,
hastily, as if fearful of wounding her new friend's
feelings, "but I think it's very pretty, too."

"I am glad you like it, Corda. And are you
really getting strong? Have you any pain?"

"Not now. Scarcely at all. It used to be
bad at first, because, you know, one of my bones
was broken in two. I forget what they call it,
but Mr. Brett knows."

"Mr. Brett is the doctor, isn't he, Corda?"

"Yes; he's a very good doctor indeed. He
mended my bone beautifully, papa says. And
he brings me oranges, and talks to me when he
has time."

Mabel, finding the child grow less shy as she
became accustomed to her visitor's presence,
endeavoured to find out whether there were any
way in which she could be useful to the little creature.
But Corda seemed to have no selfish wants.
Her papa was so good to her, and fond of her! she
said. And Alfred was a very dear clever brother.
And even Mrs. Hutchins was very kind. Of
course Mrs. Hutchins was not a lady—and