"Mamma said so. And papa is gone. Oh,
Tibby, Tibby!" The little soft arms clasped
themselves convulsively round his sister's neck.

"My sweet little one," said Mabel, with streaming
eyes, "hush your sobs, you will fret poor
mamma. Don't grieve mamma, Dooley.
Remember, she has been so sorry for papa."

"Es," returned the child, struggling against
his emotion with an intelligent resolution
surprising in such a baby. "I w—won't k'y, Tibby;
not out loud, I won't. But will 'oo ever tum
back again? Papa won't ever tum back again.
Nurse said so."

"Yes, my pet, my darling; I will come back
to you and to dear mamma. And I will write
you letters, Dooley; such beautiful letters!
And mamma will read them to you, till you are
big enough to read them yourself."

Dooley smiled through his tears, and made a
nestling movement of his head on the pillow,
expressive of satisfaction. "But," said he, with
a catching of his breath—the ground-swell of
the subsiding storm of weeping; "but will de
postman know dey is for me?"

Being assured on this important point, Dooley
gradually dropped into a slumber: holding the
forefinger of his sister's right hand against his
tear-stained cheek, and probably seeing in his
dreams bright visions of the postman coming up
the road with a large letter in his hand, which
he (the postman) would know was for Master
Dooley Saxelby.

"Oh, Dooley," thought Mabel, looking down at
the sleeping child, "oh, Dooley, Dooley!
Perhaps all our pains and sorrows seem as small
and transient to the powers above, as yours are
to me!"

     CHAPTER XIII. ADIEU AND AU REVOIR.

SUNDAY came—the last Sunday that Mrs.
Saxelby and her daughter were to pass together
for some time. Mabel's departure was fixed
for Monday morning, all preliminary arrangements
having been despatched by the combined
help of Mabel's good will to disregard obstacles
which affected only her own comfort, and of Miss
Fluke's prodigious energy. That remarkable
lady appeared to have annihilated time and
space during the three days which intervened
between Mrs. Saxelby's removal to Hazlehurst
and the Monday on which Mabel was to
go to Eastfield. It seemed as if Miss Fluke's
waterproof cloak and thick boots were seen
and heard in the little cottage at all hours.
She walked the two miles and a half that
separated Hazlehurst from Hammerham, four
times a day, splashing through the November
mud with as much indifference as if she were a
troop of cavalry. She reduced the village
servant to a state approaching petrifaction, by
the rapidity of her investigations in kitchen,
wash-house, and coal-shed. She charged at
everybody and everything. As to Dooley, after
a slow and conscientious examination of her
waterproof cloak, and after the candid expression
of his opinion that it had a very nasty
smell, he took the habit of retreating into his
mother's chamber whenever Miss Fluke's voice
was heard, and lying there perdu until her
departure. On one occasion he was found secreted
under the bed, with the kitten in his arms, and was
with difficulty induced by his sister to come out.

"Me and pussy," he confided to her, "doesn't
want to peak to Miss Fook. Pussy 'tests her."

"Dooley!" said his sister. "Why does pussy
detest Miss Fluke? I am sure she wouldn't
hurt pussy."

"N—no," returned Dooley, reflectively, "not
hurt her; but she—she 'trokes her so wery
hard."

Miss Fluke, in fact, was stroking the whole
household very hard.

The Sunday was clear and cold, and mother
and daughter walked together to the little old
parish church, where, in presence of a scanty and
humble congregation, the morning service was
mildly performed, and a mild sermon was mildly
preached by a mild old gentleman in silver-
rimmed spectacles. Dooley was taken to church
on this occasion for the first time in his life,
so very successfully, that he came home in a
high state of enjoyment, announcing his intention
of always going to church with mamma
when Mabel should be away.

As they approached the cottage, which was
separated from the high road by a very narrow
strip of garden enclosed within a wooden fence,
they saw the little servant standing at the front
door with her arms wrapped in her apron—for
it was now late in November, and the day
was cold—and looking out for their return.

"Missis, there's two young gents comed to
see ye."

"Two what?" said Mrs. Saxelby.

"Two young gents. And I telled 'un you
was at church, and they said as they'd bide
till you com'd home; and they're a-smokin' in
the paddock; and I asked 'un into the parlour,
and they said how they 'oodn't like to make
it smell of baccy. But I telled 'un they was
welcome to," added Betty, with a commendable
sense of hospitality.

Clement Charlewood and his brother Walter
appeared at the back door leading from the
paddock.

Mabel felt angry with herself as she became
conscious of colouring violently. When it came
to her turn to greet Clement Charlewood, she
gave him the tips of her fingers and the coldest
of salutations.

"I'm so glad to see you!" said Mrs.
Saxelby. "You are very good to walk over in
time to say a farewell word to Mabel." Mrs.
Saxelby preceded the two young men into the
parlour.

"I'll go up-stairs with Dooley, and take his
things off, mamma," said Mabel.

Mrs. Saxelby was always popular with the
younger men of her acquaintance; for she
combined with a motherly manner which put them
at their ease, a soft feminine helplessness which
is usually gracious in the eyes of most men,
young or old. In answer to her inquiries,
Clement said that his mother and sisters were very