"Oh, never mind her! She doesn't inconvenience
me. Let her stay if she likes."

As she evidently did like, her mother let her
stay.

Edward had now to undergo a complete
examination. His waistcoat-buttons were counted,
his cravat was untied, and his collars were
turned down. Then the little intruder betook
herself to his face, and poked her small fingers
into every corner. She took hold of his
eyelashes to open and shut his eyes, and arranged
his hair in a very novel style. And he actually
smiled at these indignities, for he found it
very pleasant to have that absorbed little face
so near his, and those marvellously soft little
fingers touching him so lightly. She tired of
the amusement sooner than he did, and
presently began to clamour for her "paints."

It seemed she was a great hand at the fine
arts, and Edward was obliged to get out at the
next station to procure some water to moisten
the said paints, and a copy of the Illustrated
London News on which to exercise her skill
in the art of colouring. The pictures of ships
and public buildings were soon disposed of.
She adopted a very broad style with them.
Some of her paints she held in greater estimation
than the rest, and these were not
employed unless the picture were a favourite
Others were considered very ordinary tints, and
were generally dashed all over uninteresting
subjects without the slightest reference to
nature. The Governor-General of India was
painted a deep blue; and a meeting at Exeter
Hall a brilliant yellow; but "the Paris Fashions
for January," represented by three or four
surprised-looking ladies and an elderly child,
required the artist's grave consideration. She
finally consulted Edward.

"What's that?" she inquired, pointing to one
of them.

"That's a lady," said Edward; " give her a
green gown. Hallo! that's going on to her
fingers." And he put out his hand to guide the
too-busy pencil.

"What's that?" said she again.

"That's her bonnet. Let's make that red."

"Where's the red?"

"Here it is. Now then. Black hair, here's
the black. And now her face. Rosy cheeks."

"Where's the rosy?" the small person asked
again; and, having been shown it, she went on
with a vigour that did not promise a long
continuance of her exertions. And, indeed, a sudden
pause very soon took place. Baby was getting
very much bored.

At this point mamma began to fumble in a
bag. Edward had long felt impelled to open
his bag, and now he could no longer resist
doing so. In that bag was one of Boissier's
masterpieces—a lovely bonbonniere which he
was carrying home to his own little sisters.
Poor little sisters! they were obliged to content
themselves with British "goodies;" but he
could not regret his gift when he saw how
tightly it was held by its new possessor; and
her little face, nodding to him out of a cab
window, became one of those memories which
we stow away for years, ready to bring out and
lovingly pore over, again and again.

CHAPTER II.

EDWARD'S fellow-traveller, Mrs. Stalman,
was the widow of the Rev. Allan Stalman, vicar
of Spikehurst, Kent. She was of a good family,
though a very poor one, and, the Rev. Allan
having nothing but his country living worth two
hundred pounds a year, she had been well
accustomed to poverty all her life. She had met
her husband in Malta, where her father's
regiment was quartered, and that small place had
had a good gossip over the astounding news
that she had declined to marry her cousin, John
Tustin, the richest prize in the place, for the
sake of a poor chaplain.

She had been very happy with the poor
chaplain, and did not trouble herself much about
John Tustin, who had parted from her in
anger. He had gone to India she knew, and
was reported to be leading a gay life there, and
to be gaining rapid promotion.

The Rev. Allan Stalman died. Every one in
Spikehurst was very kind to his widow, but
Spikehurst was not a large place, and she could
not live on kind words alone. Nor, had she
any idea of living on the bounty of others.
Consequently, Mrs. Stalman roused herself in
her deep affliction, and, instead of posing in the
eyes of Spikehurst as a desolate widow with a
fatherless child, proceeded to realise her
possessions, and travelled up to London with a
modest wardrobe and three hundred pounds in
money.

She had been a great musical performer in
the Malta days, and had managed to keep her
powers tolerably unimpaired, even in the
unappreciative circles at Spikehurst. She was so
fortunate as to obtain the post of musical
teacher in two good schools near London, and
that of organist in a church. An old friend, who
was much in her own plight (minus the three
hundred pounds), was glad to join with her in
renting a small house, which offered
"Apartments for a Single Gentleman;" and thus Mrs.
Stalman managed to live in great respectability.

In London, six years had passed more rapidly
over Mrs. Stalman's head than they had over
Edward Pringleson's. With him, that time
had dragged itself away in unsettled
purposelessness. He had seen the usual incidents that
occur in a large family, grow and develop.
One of the boys had gone to sea; another, first
to the bad and then to Australia. Most of the
boys had got into debt a little, but had repented
and were now doing well. And then his eldest
sister, who was to have made the grand match to
my Lord Sharklin, was met at the very church
door by the genuine peer, and saw her impostor
bridegroom shrink way, never to return.

In all these troubles, Edward's clear head
was in constant requisition. A fellowship at
Oxford had procured him independence, and
what wonder if, in the midst of all these
difficulties, he had reached his thirtieth year
without making any mark?

At that time, came that break which is often