the room, and she was thin almost to emaciation.
"So good, so good of you to come,"
she whispered, laying her cheek against Mabel's
shoulder.

"It was Mr. Shaw who brought me, Corda."

"He's always good. How many good people
there are! I wish—do you think everybody
will be good, some day, Miss Mabel?"

"It, is to be desired, dear," Mabel answered,
smilingly, but Corda's face was very grave.

"I sometimes hope they will. Everybody,
everybody good! That will be in heaven,
won't it?"

"Yes, darling."

"And don't you think," pursued the child,
sinking her voice to a whisper, "that the good
people in heaven will be let to help to make
those on earth better? Oh, I hope they may!
I do hope it!"

Jerry Shaw, standing behind Corda, made
Mabel a sign unseen by the former; and Mabel
gently led the child away to other topics. It
was not long before she was laughing gleefully at
some anecdote about Dooley. "And do you
know who is in London. Corda? My cousin
Jack, from Dublin! Mr. Walton, as you call him."

Corda was full of interest directly, and asked
a hundred questions about her kind friends in
Ireland. "I have written to them," said she.
"You must not think I was ungrateful. I did
write to Mrs. Walton, and to Madame Bensa
too. And they answered me. But I have not
written lately. I have felt so tired."

Mr. Shaw had professed that he had an
errand to perform in the neighbourhood, and
had left Mabel alone with the child, promising
to return shortly. As he left the room, he had
given Mabel a beseeching glance, intended to
recal to her mind what he had said respecting
Corda. The little girl seemed cheerful enough
now, holding Mabel's hand, and chatting almost
gaily. "How long have you been ill, Corda
dear?" asked Mabel.

"Oh, not very, very long, thank you."
There was a shade of constraint over her
manner all at once.

"And what made you so ill? Was it
sudden?"

"Oh no, no. It was not that, indeed. I am
quite sure I was not strong before."

"Not what, Corda? Wfcat are you alluding
to, dear child?"

Corda grew more and more constrained and
shy. "I mean, I should have been sure to be
ill whatever happened. It was no one's fault."

"No one's fault! No, dear, I suppose not.
But Mr. Shaw tells me, Corda, that he fancies
you are not quite happy; that there is something
distressing you. If it is so—if any trouble
is preying on you—will you not confide it to
me, Corda? Perhaps by consulting together,
we might find a way to cure it. Won't you
trust me, dear little Corda?"

The child withdrew her hand from Mabel's
clasp and shrank awav. "No, no, I can't,
indeed. Don't ask me," she said, beseechingly.
"There is nothing to tell."

"Nothing, Corda?"

"Nothing—or at least—I mustn't tell a
story even to do good, must I?"

"Stories never do good, Corda. Be sure of
that."

"No; I will speak the truth. But keeping
a secret is different. Something did make me
a little unhappy, but—I—I hope it is over
now. And I cannot tell it to you, nor to any
one. I have no right to do so. I found it out by
chance." Then, as if fearing she had already
said too much, she clasped her hands tightly
together, and repeated,  No, no. I can't tell.
I can't tell any one."

"Dear Corda, I will not urge you to do so,"
said Mabel, surprised and troubled by the
child's agitation. "But you will promise me
to let me help you if I can do so, will you not,
Corda?"

Corda made an affirmative sign of the head,
and slipped her small palm into Mabel's once
more.

"You are weak and ill now, and sick people
often have distressing fancies, you know,
and see the dark side of things. When you get
stronger, your trouble may seem less terrible."

Corda smiled faintly and shook her head.
"When I get stronger," she repeated.

Jerry Shaw returned at this moment, and
Mabel rose to go away. "I must leave you
now, Corda," she said. "You know my time
is not at my own command. But I will come
again soon, and bring Dooley to see you. He
often asks when 'Torda' is coming again to be
wheeled in his barrow! Shall I give him your
love?"

"Oh yes, please! And to Mrs. Saxelby, if
—if I may send it."

"You may certainly, Corda. Now tell me
the exact address of your lodgings. Mr. Shaw
conveyed me hither, and I do not know the
name of the street."

"I will write it down," said Corda, eagerly
taking up a pencil and a scrap of paper. "And
there I have written one line to Dooley.
Tell him it is a letter from me. He is always
so delighted to get a letter. I remember, in
Dublin, your cousin, Mr. Walton, used to send
him little notes by the post on purpose to
please him!"

"Thanks, Corda. It shall be duly delivered.
And now, good-bye, dear child. I will come
again soon. Meanwhile, be as cheerful as you
can, and get very strong."

Corda clung to her friend in a parting
embrace, but, with habitual docility, and the
habit so strangely familiar to so young a creature
of resigning her own will, and, as it were,
suppressing herself for the sake of other?, she let
her go without any effort to detain her, or a
word of complaint.

"I think you are right, Mr. Shaw." said
Mabel, as the old man was putting her into the
cab which was in waiting. "The child's mind
is ill at case. But it may be, after all, no
serious matter that is troubling her. Corda
has a most singularly sensitive nature, and a