Corda was evidently quite capable of appreciating
the refinement and charm conveyed in that
word—but then she had a great many things to
do, and was obliged to work very hard, and so she
couldn't always be quite nice and clean, could
she? Corda's face involuntarily wrinkled itself
up into a queer little pucker, as sundry
reminiscences of Mrs. Hutchin's personal peculiarities
came vividly to her mind.

By degrees the child, feeling at her ease with
Mabel, and being a trusting artless little creature,
proceeded to chat very confidentially about her
family, as she was in the habit of doing with
Clement Charlewood. Her papa was a very
excellent musician, but he couldn't play so
beautifully as Alfred, because papa was subject
to a nervous twitching of one side, which was apt
to come on when he got excited. Hadn't Mabel
noticed it? She, Corda, meant to be a singer
when she grew up. She liked singing better than
anything. Except reading. She thought she
almost liked reading best, especially fairy stories.
The book she had there, was a fairy-book. It
had been given to her by a very kind lady. She
had written Corda's name in the book. There
it was, "To Cordelia Alice Marv Trescott, with
Mr. W.'s kind love."

“M. W.!" said Mabel, eagerly taking up the
book. "I know some one whose name begins
with those letters. Tell me, Corda—-" But at
this moment the door was flung wide open,
and Miss Fluke, followed by her sister Louisa,
marched into the room. Miss Fluke's ordinary
gait was a march. She was very upright, very
broad in the chest, very stiff in the neck, and
had a habit of staring straight before her like a
soldier on drill. She stopped short, in some
surprise, seeing the little patient whom she had
been told was so ill, flushed and smiling, and
leaning with one small hand on Mabel's shoulder
as she bespoke her attention to the writing in
the book. Corda started, and moved as well as
she could yet nearer to Mabel, who took the
hand that had been resting on her shoulder
between hers and held it encouragingly.

"So this is the little girl that was run over,"
said Miss Fluke. "I hope you are thankful to
Providence for your escape, little girl, and that
it'll be a warning to you."

Corda looked at Miss Fluke with wide eyes,
like a frightened hare, and whispered, timidly,
"Yes, ma'am"

"These ladies are friends of mine, Corda, who
have kindly called to see you," said Mabel. "I
meant to have told you about them before, so
that you might not be alar—surprised. But we
have been chatting so much about other things."

"I am a district visitor, mv dear.' said Miss
Fluke.

Corda looked a little puzzled, but, seeing
that Miss Fluke expected her to speak,
answered, meekly, "Thank you, ma'am."

"Don't thank me, child," said Miss Fluke,
with great vehemence. "Thank a bounteous
Providence who has allowed you to be born in
a land where there are district visitors."

It is to be feared that Corda scarcely realised
the blessing with any rapturous joy, for Miss
Fluke had seated herself on the edge of the
patchwork quilt, and, in the energy of her
emphasis, communicated a quivering movement
to the rickety bed, which jarred the slight
form within it, painfully. Mabel observed the
child's face change, and rose to go, in the hope of
drawing Miss Fluke away. But the latter was not
going yet awhile. Number Twenty-three, New
Bridge-street, was fresh ground for her—virgin
forest, untrodden pasture—and she set herself
to explore it, with great keenness and zest.
Miss Fluke's method of procedure on these
occasions was simple, direct, and vigorous. It
consisted in asking a series of point-blank
questions, so couched as to make evasion
impossible, short of refusing to answer altogether.

"Now, little girl, what is your name?
Cordelia? Absurd name for a child of your class!
Now, Cordelia, tell me who are your father and
mother, and why isn't one of them at home to
look after you?"

"I haven't got a mother, ma'am," said Corda,
timidly, "she died when I was a baby. And
papa is gone to treasury."

"Gone to what?"

"To treasury, ma'am. It's Saturday, you
know."

"I don't understand you, Cordelia," said
Miss Fluke, severely. It was a case for severity,
doubtless. When Miss Fluke did not understand
something said, there was surely implied
some strange and reprehensible short-coming on
the part of the speaker.

"She means," said Mabel, hurriedly coming to
the rescue, "that her father has gone to receive
his weekly salary."

"I never heard such an expression in all my
life. Treasury! Well, Cordelia"—it is impossible
to express how hard and ugly Miss Fluke
contrived to make her utterance of poor Corda's
name; and she seemed, too, to lengthen it out
mysteriously into some six syllables—"and is
your father a Christian?"

Great astonishment in Corda's hazel eyes.
"Oh yes, of course, ma'am."

"Not at all of course, I grieve to say, Cordelia.
Very far from of course. However, I
hope and trust he may be. Does he attend to
your spiritual health?"

The hazel eyes yet more bewildered, and turning
from Miss Fluke to Mabel, and back again.

"Does he look after your soul, Cordelia?
Has he taught you to know that yon're a
wretched, lost, sinful little girl, full of iniquity
and hardness of heart?"

A look of terror in the bright eyes fixed on
Miss Fluke, and a self-accusing blush on Corda's
cheek.

"I know I'm naughty sometimes, ma'am,
but papa always forgives me."

"Oh dear me!" said Miss Fluke, turning to
her sister. "Dear, dear, dear me! There it is.
No sense of sin. None whatsoever."

Corda, though considerably puzzled, understood
very well that blame was being cast, not
only on herself but on her father; and the tears