was pale and worn, and bore the look of one who
has been blanching in a close dark room, away
from free light and air.

"How is Mr. Saxelby?" asked Clement.

"He has fallen into a doze, and I have come
down for a little change. I believe he is
better. There is no serious evil. But you
lords of the creation are terribly bad patients.
I think he might have been well, a week ago,
if he had not increased his fever and irritation
by fretting. Why is this dear boy not in bed?
Dooley, you are fast asleep, my pet."

"I ain't s'eepy, mamma," said Dooley, struggling
into a sitting posture, with his hair all
over his eyes, and one cheek flushed a deep
burning red, from his having pressed it against
his sister's shoulder. Mrs. Saxelby rang the
bell for the maid. "Go with Sarah, my boy.
It is bedtime."

"Ain't he doin'?" asked Dooley, making
one desperate effort to stand on his legs, and
sliding down against his sister's dress on to the
hearth-rug.

"Yes, Dooley, I am going too," said Clement.
Dooley looked down at him doubtfully from
the elevation of Sarah's arms.

"Is he doin', Tibby?" Dooley asked, with
evident confidence in the truth of the reply he
should get from his sister.

"I think he is, Dooley. But even if he doesn't
go, you must. Because he's a grown up man,
you know, and you're only a tiny boy."

"Dood night," said Dooley, resignedly. The
view of the subject that Mabel had presented to
him was one with which he was not prepared to
deal in his drowsy condition.

"I must not stay after that," said Clement,
when the child had been carried away.

"I will go and get the books I spoke of,"
murmured Mabel, gliding quietly out of the
room. Her mother threw herself into an easy
chair with an air of weariness. She was
tired in body and harassed in mind by the
monotonous attendance in the sick-room; and
Clement's presence was a welcome change.

"Miss Earnshaw has become a disciple of
Miss Fluke's, I understand," said Clement.

"Not altogether a disciple," answered Mrs.
Saxelby, "but she has consented to assist
him in district visiting, for a time. I don't
mind telling you frankly that I do not like
it. Mabel is not adapted for that kind of
thing. She is the best, the most unselfish,
the dearest child in the world. Helpful and
unwearied in serving those she loves. But she is
not quite—what shall I say?—not quite
amenable."

"Not quite amenable to Miss Fuke, that is,"
said Clement, smiling.

"Exactly. You see, poor dear Miss Fluke,
though actuated by the most charming motives,
and—and—evangelical things of all sorts,"
said Mrs. Saxelby, breaking down somewhat in
her eulogium, "is not clever. In a worldly
sense, Miss Fluke is not clever. Now Mabel is
clever. You know that it is not mere mother's
partiality which makes me say so, Mr. Charlewood,
but Mabel has really remarkable talent
and intellect for her age."

"I know it," said Clement. But though he
did not speak insincerely, it may be doubted
whether he had ever looked upon Mabel in the
light of a very intellectual person before. Many
of our latent judgments, which might otherwise
have lain dormant as the spark lies in the
flint, are thus elicited by sudden contact with
another mind.

"I have been taking the liberty, Mrs.
Saxelby," pursued Clement, "of again speaking
to your daughter about those Trescotts. You
will think me very audacious to return to the
charge, after the severe snubbing I got from
Miss Earnshaw on the subject the other day."

"Not at all audacious. Very friendly, on
the contrary. But, entre nous, Mr. Charlewood,
I don't see any such very strong objection
to her seeing the child occasionally, under
the auspices of Miss Fluke. Mabel's
sympathies were strongly excited by the
circumstances under which she first saw this little
girl. As the child grows stronger, and does
not call for her pity, Mabel's enthusiasm will
cool. Though," added Mrs. Saxelby, after an
instant's pause, "Mabel is not apt to be fickle;
I must own that."

"Mrs. Saxelby, I have been telling Miss
Earnshaw something of which you will better
appreciate the weight and bearing than she can.
The brother, of whom I have chanced to hear a
good deal lately, is a worthless young
vagabond. I suppose most people of his class
and profession are dissipated and careless. But
this lad is worse than that. He is a
frequenter of billiard-rooms and taverns. The
Trescotts are very poor. The money with
which he gratifies his self-indulgence must be
got in, to say the least, a disreputable way,
by gambling. It is a bad case. Think, Mrs.
Saxelby, of the possibility of Miss Earnshaw's
name being bandied about in low public-houses
by this young fellow and his associates."
Clement's hand clenched itself involuntarily as he
spoke.

"I will talk to Mabel myself," said Mrs.
Saxelby, nervously; "she will hear reason. Hush,
she's coming. Say no more at present, I beg
of you."

Mabel came into the room with a little packet
of books under her arm. "Mr. Charlewood has
promised to take these to Corda Trescott for me,
mamma."

"He is very kind."

"There is the White Cat, with illustrations,
coloured in a very high style of art by myself.
Poor white cat! The common paint with which
I bedaubed her, has grown discoloured and
made her into a brown cat by this time. Never
mind; there is the story. Then I have Robinson
Crusoe, Edgeworth's Rosamond, and a
volume of Hans Christian Andersen's tales. It
is quite a library for Corda."

"Good night, Mrs. Saxelby," said Clement,
taking charge of the books. "Good night,
Miss Earnshaw. I hope Mr. Saxelby will be