"It is, dear; but you will find, when you have to rouse yourself at tea-time, that you are cold and cross, and not at all fit to take your part in everything cheerfully."

Ada looked incredulous, but yielded to her mother's wish, and drew nearer the table, where a shaded lamp was casting a bright and pleasant light.

"It is so much nicer to do as one likes," she said, drawing her shoulders together and shivering slightly.

"Yes, at the time," answered Mrs. Arundel, quietly.

"People always forget," continued Ada, "that they used to like such things when they were young."

Her mamma gave her an arch smile, and Ada continued—

"I don't mean you do exactly; but people want us to grow wise all at once; now don't they, mamma?"

"Yes, dear, I dare say we do. We want to save you a number of vexations which we had to bear ourselves; but I am afraid you will not let us."

As Mrs. Arundel finished speaking, a bright girl of about twenty entered, followed by two little maidens of nearly seven and eight years respectively.

"Here you are!" exclaimed Ada, starting up. "I have been longing for you so; but this last hour I had forgotten all about you, I have been so busy reading."

"Yes, here we are," answered Nellie, coming forward and kissing her step-mamma. "We have had such a nice time; but how are all at home?"

"Oh, pretty well, dear. We missed you sadly though."

Nellie shook her head, and bent down to warm her hands, while the little girls began to throw off their wraps, and were drawing their chairs close to the warm blaze, when Nellie interposed—

"We must go up and take off our things, dears. It is of no use to settle down for a chat till we have got ready for tea. Come along."

Netta and Isabel gathered up their hats and jackets and hastened after their half-sister, only anxious to get back again as quickly as possible to their mamma and the fire.

"Now," said Ada, resuming her semi-grumble, "would you not say, mamma, that that was rather exasperating, if you didn't know that it really was the best to do?"

"That? What do you mean?"

"Why, Nellie walking those children off, and not saying a word. Don't you think we should all have enjoyed ourselves infinitely more if we had settled down to a chat then and there?"

"Perhaps—" said Mrs. Arundel, hesitating. "Only, you see, Ada, I know so well that it is the right thing, that I am not a fair judge."

"So do I," said Ada, half smiling. "Of course I know it; for instead of sitting and spoiling their hats, and rumpling their jackets, and scorching their best boots, and having after all to turn out and go upstairs, and dreading all the time that you would tell them to go, they will now come down warm and tidy and fresh, and they will sit here for ever so long, and be quite happy, and tell you all their doings without a break, and will feel besides that they had done right; and yet, mamma, I'd have sat here all the same, if I had been allowed, and faced the disagreeable for the sake of the luxury!"

Mrs. Arundel looked rather pained, and Ada leant over and gave her a warm kiss.

"You're a dear, good, sweet mother. And now I've done grumbling, and will be a good girl."

She closed her tempting book precipitately, drew from her pocket some tatting, and pushing her chair a little to one side to make room for the others when they came down, she commenced working.

Some readers are already acquainted with the Arundels; but to those who do not yet know them, it may be explained that they were a large family, living in a square in the middle of London, round which their father's practice as a physician lay among both rich and poor.

There were many who knew Dr. Arundel, not only as the clever and successful doctor, but as the friend who in dark hours of anxiety truly sympathized, while reminding them of One above, ruling and watching, waiting to be gracious, and to bless those who would call upon Him in their sorrow.

There were nine children—Walter and Nellie by the first wife, and seven since, the two youngest of whom, a baby boy of two years, and a little pet girl of four, were happily at tea in the nursery on this cold day in January.

Very soon the three sisters came down looking, as Ada had said, warm and tidy and fresh, or if they were not warm, they soon would be.

"Now tell us all your doings," exclaimed Ada.

"How did you leave Christina?" asked Mrs. Arundel.

"She was very well, and very happy; and we really had so much to do, and were so busy over the Christmas tree, that the time flew by in an extraordinary way," answered Nellie.

"Did they have a Christmas tree?" said Ada rather regretfully.

"Yes, last night; just a very simple one. We did so want you, Ada! But papa had said so distinctly that you were needed at home, that Christina did not like to write."

Ada's colour came fast, and she went on with her tatting in silence, her eyes filling in spite of all her efforts when she remembered the delights she had missed, and pictured to herself how intensely she would have enjoyed it all. She knew, however, that it had not been "her turn" to go, and acquiesced in its being right; but still "how she would have enjoyed it!"

Nellie knew this well enough, and had offered to come home and send Ada instead; but Christina Arbuthnot, at whose house at Hampstead they had been staying, understood Dr. and Mrs. Arundel's wise decision, and would not allow Nellie to write and make the proposal.

"And did it go off well?" asked Mrs. Arundel.

"Oh, lovely!" said Isabel. "It was so pretty; and such a lot of candles; you could not have counted them, mamma, if you had tried ever so, not when they were all alight."

Ada stealthily brushed away her gathered tears, and said, without looking up, "Did they have presents on the tree?"

"Yes, lots," replied Netta emphatically; "little toys, bags of sweetmeats, pincushions, boxes, and fruit."

"Who made the things?" said Ada.

"We did, a great many," answered Isabel; "but of course the toys were bought. We made little bags of net, and the sweetmeats looked so pretty, showing through them."

"Then we made some net into the shape of sailor boys, and pushed pink and white lozenges into their legs and arms, and, oh, they did look so funny hanging by cottons dangling about!"

Netta and Isabel laughed gleefully, and Ada smiled too at the thought.

"The little ones did stare so," said Nellie, "when they were introduced into the room; and the baby gave quite a crow of delight."

"What did you give the baby?" asked Ada.

"A soft dog," answered Netta, "that would squeak."

"And what did Alfy have?"

"A little horse and cart for his very own."

"Was he pleased?"

"Oh, yes; he walked away with it, and began playing at once; and every time anyone came near, he hugged it tight, and said, 'This is for my own, own self now.'"

"Poor little man," said Mrs. Arundel.

"Mamma always is full of pity," said Ada; "but I do not see why Alfy is poor at all."

Mrs. Arundel did not answer, but stroked Netta's head thoughtfully.

"Dear mamma," said she, looking up and appreciating the soft touch; then turning to Ada, "I know why mamma thinks Alfy 'poor;' and so he is, because he has no mother."

"But Christina makes him as happy as can be in her Orphanage," said Ada.

"Yes," said Mrs. Arundel; "and it is infinitely better than his running wild at the farm; and yet, Ada—"

Ada's eyes turned round the room, and a thought flashed across her; but she put it away hastily and almost angrily. "Another time," she said to herself; "not now on any account."

Just at this moment, the door was opened to admit the entrance of an invalid boy, who lay at full length on a light frame, so arranged that it could be carried up and down stairs easily, and placed upon an ordinary sofa without disturbing him.

Mrs. Arundel sometimes wondered what they would do when the now slender form should be too heavy to be carried, but she checked the thought; for, after all, did it not belong to the cares of to-morrow? And are we not told over and over that these are not to harass us?

Carrying one end of the couch was Simmons, the housemaid, and the other, little Tom's brother Arthur, a well-grown boy of fifteen. Mrs. Arundel rose, and made way for them to place him on the sofa, and then, when he was comfortable, the little girls greeted him, while Nellie sat down by him and took his hand.

"I have missed you so, Nellie," he said, looking up in her face.

"I have brought something for you off the Christmas tree," answered Nellie.

"Have you really? How kind of you."

"It is from Christina. It was her tree, you know."

"What is it?" asked Tom, looking curiously at Nellie's hand, which was disappearing into her pocket.

"It is a very wonderful knife," answered she, producing it; and while his thin little fingers explored its mysteries, all the others drew near to watch, Arthur holding the lamp above Netta's head that they might all see as well as possible.

There was a large blade and a small blade; there was a little saw, a gimlet, a bradawl, a tiny screwdriver, and a little pair of pincers.

Tom's eyes sparkled, and even Arthur would not have disdained the pretty present.

"Shall I ever be able to use any of them?" asked Tom.

"Yes, we think you will. Christina has sent you some light wood, and directions how to make various little things; and she thought, Tom, you might perhaps like to do something for the missionaries."

"I should very much, if I could."

"We will see then some morning when you are extra well."

"All right," answered Tom, shutting up the different parts of his knife with great pride, and then it lay in his hand, while he turned a little to refresh himself with a sight of his sisters and his dear Nellie. He thought how nice they all looked in their plain, warm winter dresses, and then his eyes wandered to his mother.

She was the very light of Tom's eyes. How he loved to see her come in and out. There were times, seeming long ago now to little Tom, but not much more than a year really, when he had been fretful and impatient to this loved mother, adding greatly to her cares by repining at his helpless state, and grumbling at his deprivations. He had perhaps loved her then as much as he did now; but how different was the whole of his life!

The children sometimes said, "We think Tom is getting better;" but Tom knew it was not so.

No, there was just this difference: before, he had tried to bear his affliction as well as he knew how, while secretly chafing against the accident which had deprived him of every pleasure in life, and unable to help venting his misery on his tender mother.

Now he had learnt a different lesson. He found one beautiful summer day, that there was another life beyond this one, that these short years are but as a drop in the ocean of eternity. He found that God had allowed him to be a sufferer; and the same God who had sent him such pain and weariness had given him also an assurance that He loved him.

Loved him! Was it possible this could be love? Could the bitterest trial that could enter little Tom's imagination be sent in love?

He found out that it was, it must be. He who had sent this blow to Tom had also given up His own Son to die for him. Greater love could not be; and he believed that love, and rested in it, and found peace.

So from that time, little Tom had been a different boy. If ever the old repining feeling came over him, he would remember words which had often comforted him, and would again repeat them over to himself.

One day he gave Nellie a shilling, and asked her in a whisper to buy him a little set of scales. She did so, wondering what he could want them for. He did not explain; but a few days afterwards, she found him busy covering two match-boxes with white paper, and painting them to imitate corded packages.

She examined one, and saw painted on the side "L. A."; and turning to the other, took it up, and found to her surprise, it was quite heavy.

"What are you making, Tom dear?" she asked.

He smiled slightly, and leaning over to a little box on his table, produced the scales, and placing one package in one side, and the other package in the other side, asked her to hang them up for him somewhere where he could see them.

"But what for, Tom dear?" she said, rising to get a nail. "What is the meaning of the letters on the parcels?"

"'L. A.' is my luggage now," said Tom, "and 'W. G.' is my luggage by-and-by."

Nellie looked at him enquiringly, and Tom said, though his lips quivered a little, "They are to remind me—Light Affliction now, Weight of Glory afterwards."

Nellie buried her head on his pillow, and clasped her arms round him. "Oh, Tom! Poor little Tom! Dear little Tom!"

And then he whispered tenderly, though with a sob in his voice—

"'These light afflictions, which are but for a moment, work for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.' For, Nellie darling, the things that we see are but for a time, but the things we do not see are for ever."

* * * * * *

On this evening of their return from Hampstead, Tom lay looking at them all, and when Dr. Arundel came in, they all gathered round the tea-table.

Then they told their little histories over again, with some new ones in addition; and the evening flew away so fast that Netta and Isabel were astonished when their mamma said, "It is eight o'clock, my dears; and you must go to bed."

Tom generally was glad to retire soon after tea; the days were long enough for him; but on rare occasions, when his mother saw he was interested, she did not break in on his happiness, but let him enjoy as much as he could.

When Ada laid her head on her pillow that night, after she had said good-night to Nellie, the thought which she had banished so peremptorily would force itself unbidden upon her.

This was the thought, and it made her shiver, "What would home be without mamma?"

Her mind went round and round the corners of the house—the sitting-rooms, the bedrooms, the nursery; and for once in her life, Ada Arundel was thoroughly frightened at the desolation her imagination had conjured up.

A soft footstep entered the dark room, a footstep she knew and loved.

"Is either of you awake, dears?" said a gentle voice.

"I am, mamma," answered Ada, starting up with such an overpowering sense of relief that she burst into tears.

"I was only afraid of frightening you," answered Mrs. Arundel. "I came up for the glycerine."

"Oh, mamma, do kiss me!" said Ada in a broken voice.

Mrs. Arundel made her way to the side of the bed, and, feeling for her eldest daughter, folded her in her arms.

"Oh, mamma," said Ada again, "I did not know I loved you so much!"

"My dear," questioned Mrs. Arundel, while she kissed the wet face fondly.

"Oh, don't leave us, mamma!" sobbed Ada.

"Not if it is God's will," gently answered her mother. "It would be hard to think of you without me; but, Ada, my child, do not cry about it now; tell it all to God. He knows best, my dear."

Kissing her again, Mrs. Arundel tucked her up smoothed her hair, wiped away her tears, and turned to the dressing-table.

Ada jumped out of bed, and gave her the glycerine, and with one more kiss jumped in again, and buried her head far beneath the clothes.

If she fought a hard battle there with her anxious fears, there was One knew it; and if she came off victorious and at rest, there was One who proved Himself, as He has so often done before, "a refuge from the storm; a shadow from the heat, when the blast of the terrible ones is as a storm against the wall."

[CHAPTER II.]

A PEEP AT CHRISTINA.

IT may be remembered that Christina Arbuthnot was an orphan. She had met the Arundels rather more than a year before this at the sea-side, and had become very intimate with them; and eventually she had accepted Dr. Arundel's eldest son, who was now in India.

She had been left by her father in comfortable circumstances, and had intended to devote her life to bringing up little friendless orphans to usefulness and happiness.

Then Walter Arundel had come upon the scene, and had fixed all his life's hopes on winning her.

Christina had hesitated; at first she had felt it to be impossible to yield to his wishes; for there was a grave far away where a great part of her heart lay buried. But after a time, thinking more of Walter than of herself, she had consented, and had settled down at Hampstead with her orphan children quietly content, full more of the present, perhaps, than of the future.

Her house, with its large garden, pleasant rooms, and glorious sunshine, was a home in which any one far less cheerfully constituted might have been happy; and Christina was happy. She loved her aunt, who lived with her; she loved her little orphan children; and the days passed away in her care for both.

There was one little child, "the baby," who had grown very dear to Christina; for her story had been a sad one, and she had been sent to Hampstead under peculiar circumstances. She was at this time a toddling little mite of eighteen months old, with fair hair and white cheeks, in which a tender little colour was beginning to be visible, which was watched by all the inmates of Sunnyside with great interest.

Whether Margaret Fenton, the nurse, or Margaret's own little daughter, Maggie, or Christina herself, loved baby Alice best, was a problem that little Maggie often tried to solve, and she generally ended it satisfactorily by saying in an assured little tone to her mother, "At any rate, God loves her best of all!"

There was, however, no doubt as to which of her devoted admirers baby loved best. Dearly as she liked nurse Margaret, happily as she played with Maggie, her smile of sweetest welcome was reserved for Christina, and it was to her she would go in preference to anyone else.

It was generally understood in the household that, when the young mistress was married, little Alice Forbes was not to be parted from her.

One morning early in January, the nursery door opened, after a slight tap, and Ada Arundel, dressed in hat and jacket, walked into the room.

"Miss Ada, you quite startled me!" said Margaret, looking up pleasantly in the bright young face. "It seems a long time since you were here."

"Yes, I've been dutiful at home, and so I couldn't come. Where's Miss Arbuthnot?"

"She has gone out into the town to get a few things, I believe, miss."

"Is she alone?" asked Ada, glancing round the nearly empty nursery.

"Oh, no! Alfy and Maggie are with her."

"I think I shall wander down the town too, presently, when I am warm, and see if I can find her. I wonder I did not meet her as I came."

"She might be in a shop," suggested Margaret.

"Yes, I daresay she was. And how is 'baby Alice,' Margaret?"

Their eyes turned towards the hearthrug where the little maid was seated. Her warm winter frock was covered by a snowy pinafore, and her flaxen hair was neatly parted, with an attempt at two or three soft little curls.

"She looks pretty well?" said Ada, half questioningly.

"Yes," said Margaret, also with a slight hesitation in her voice, "but she wants a great deal of care, Miss Ada; I doubt if she will ever be strong."

Ada took her up on her lap, and began to talk to her in baby language, Alice staring at her with grave eyes for some moments, and then holding out her arms, with quivering lips, to her nurse.

"She is so shy," said Margaret apologetically, "we have quite a trouble with her sometimes; but we do love her so dearly!" And she fondly kissed the fair little neck, and held her close to her.

"I suppose I am warm now," said Ada, rising; "but your heath is bitterly cold at the open part there, Margaret."

"But very healthy," added Margaret.

Ada made her way once more over the top of the heath—"the abode of the zephyrs," she told Christina it ought to be called—and soon found herself in the midst of the shops.

After walking up and down for a few minutes, she was touched on the hand by a little girl, and was quickly drawn into a draper's shop, where she found Christina seated, while close to her, with very stolid countenance, Alfy Ross was perched, watching the proceedings gravely and without surprise.

"Here you are," exclaimed Ada; "I began to think I should miss you after all."

"It was Maggie spied you; she always knows what is going on, don't you, Maggie?"

Maggie answered by a little smile; then Christina counted her change, and they all turned homewards.

When they entered the hall at Sunnyside, Christina told the children to go at once to the play-room.

"I don't want to," said Alfy, making towards the dining-room.

"Come along, Alfy," said Maggie; "I've got something to show you."

Alfy, still persisted that "he didn't want to," and walked straight into the other room.

"Alfy," said Christina firmly, "come at once, as I told you."

Alfy held on by the table, and looked determined not to give in.

Christina took no more notice, but closing the door upon him, went up with Ada to take off their things.

"Do you often have him troublesome?" asked Ada, noticing a shade upon Christina's usually calm face.

"Yes; he is very difficult to manage; but I have found out now what to do when he is naughty. I take no notice of him at all."

"Does he care for that?" asked Ada.

"Oh, dear, yes, in the end. But it always makes me sorrowful when they are naughty, so you must not mind, Ada."

"Is Maggie ever tiresome?"

"Never to me. She is the sweetest little thing, and so well brought up. Oh, if all were like Maggie, there would be no trouble. But sometimes Margaret fears whether she has will enough of her own."

"Oh, dear!" said Ada. "One has too much, and one too little. Why, Christina, I am always struggling because I have too much."

Christina smiled sympathizingly. "Yes, Ada; so it is."

"Now at home," pursued Ada, "I do dislike to give in to Nellie, dearly as I love her. She is so methodical, and nice, and wise; and I am 'harum-scarum,' and full of spirits, and when I am wild to do some outlandish thing, she advises me not—almost commands me—says mamma would not wish it; and then up rises my will, and I can't give in."

"But Nellie does not do it to destroy your pleasure, dear Ada, I am sure. Can you not try to consider whether it would be your mamma's wish?"

"I do, Christina; but don't you think it is a little hard to be ruled by elder sisters?"

"I daresay it is," answered Christina; "but I often wish I had one."

"Well, I am afraid I'm not a good temper, and that makes me so annoyed over little things."

"So you feel it is like a sore place that you have just got to bear."

Ada looked up at the tone in which Christina said this, and found there was a glimmer of a smile in her eyes.

"Well, what else can I do?" she asked, a little nettled.

"When we have sore places, what do we do?"

"Bear them."

"Nothing else?"

"Not that I know of."

"Do we not seek a cure?"

"There's no cure for bad temper."

"Is there not? Is there no balm that can be applied? No touch that can soothe and heal?"

"Oh, well," said Ada, softening, "I daresay there is in that way. But do you really think now, Christina, that if I felt a bad temper coming, I could get it cured before it got beyond me?"

"Yes; if you were willing to have it cured, most certainly. Try it, Ada.

"'Come unto Me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you, and learn of Me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.'"

"I'll remember that," said Ada, with that tenderness in her face which Christina loved to see in the proud young girl. So she kissed her lovingly, and they went down stairs.

Christina went through the dining-room purposely, and entered the play-room from that way. Margaret was at work, baby Alice slept in a crib in the corner, and Maggie was seated at the table doing her lessons.

Christina showed Margaret her purchases, and after glancing at the baby, she and Ada went into the drawing room.

Christina stirred up the fire and drew a chair close, and telling Ada to sit there, pushed one forward for herself.

"It will soon be dinner-time, but we can have a chat first. Must you be home by dark?"

"Yes; I am to leave at three o'clock."

"Ada, I believe I have found another little child!"

"Have you? Where?"

"You know I have not increased the numbers as much as I at first intended. Somehow, as I knew more about it, the responsibility seemed very great, and I thought it would be wiser to wait till—"

"Till Walter comes to share it, I suppose?" said Ada archly.

"Partly, but not wholly, Ada. I do not think it would be right to take more children than I could provide for out of my own funds, if circumstances did not permit of my taking care of them myself."

"I see," said Ada.

"But, however," continued Christina, "I have found a fourth child, and I am to fetch him this afternoon."

"Are you? Oh, do tell me."

"It is a very sad case, Ada; a drunken mother. I was travelling home from a short visit to some relations in the North last week, as you know, and when the bustle of settling ourselves in our carriage was over, and everyone subsided into quiescence, I looked round me, as I generally do, trying to fancy what homes my fellow-travellers come from, and where they are going to."

"Do you?" said Ada. "How funny."

"At the other end of the carriage was a man in shabby-genteel clothes, holding on his knee a baby of about eighteen months old. Oh, his face, Ada! I said to myself—for I saw he was alone, and the child had been dressed by no careful, loving hands—I said to myself, 'You have lost your wife, and are obliged to take your baby somewhere to be looked after.' The child sat very still; it seemed as if want of love and cherishing had pressed the life out of its little nature, and my heart ached for it."

"What a loving heart you have," said Ada, as she gazed at the beautiful face, with its eyes full of tears.

"By-and-by, the man began talking to the person next him, and I caught the words, 'It's the last of eight. I'm taking him away from his mother; she is no mother to him, and I can bear it no longer.'

"How hopelessly sad was the tone of those words.

"When the carriage cleared at Peterborough, and we were left alone, I drew nearer to him, and asked if I should hold the baby for a few minutes. I assure you its quietness was touching. It seemed unaccustomed to notice or cheerfulness, and when I cooed at him, he looked wonderingly at me with no answering smile."

"Poor little baby!" said Ada.

"Then the broken-hearted father told me his story, impelled to it, I suppose, by my sympathy and his own sad need.

"He had married for love, and for years had been perfectly happy.

"He and his wife kept a draper's shop in York, and had got on comfortably, and been able to educate their children. By-and-by, he noticed a gradual change in his wife; he thought it was illness, and used to comfort and nurse her with the utmost solicitude. But the often-recurring symptoms, which no doctoring relieved, at last made him consult a physician, who took him aside and told him what was the cause of it all.

"'She takes spirits secretly,' he said.

"Then the poor man returned to his ruined home.

"He tried to stop it by entreaty, by denial, by commands; all to no purpose. The business was slighted, the children were neglected, the home was left ungoverned, and he had to remove one child after another from her influence.

"At first she had promised amendment, but the craving for the exciting, stimulating glass was too strong to be withstood, and she let all her resolutions go to the winds.

"The tale, Ada, was long and very, very sad. The climax of taking the baby away was brought about by the wretched father finding its cradle on fire on the previous night, while its mother slept heavily by its side.

"I asked him what he intended doing with the little one.

"'I don't know,' he said. 'To tell you the truth, I am taking it without warning to my sisters; but she has a large family, and I don't know that she can possibly take it. Folks don't want other people's babies,' he added, sadly smiling, while he clasped it tighter in his arms.

"The little fellow looked up then, and gave the first faint smile I had seen.

"Then I told him that if his sister could not have it, he could come to me, for that I knew some one who took care of such little ones. I gave him my address, and told him, you may be sure, where the only comfort and help could be found; and so we parted, he to his sister's, and I to Hampstead.

"The next morning, true to my expectation, he came; not, however, bringing the little boy with him. He soon told me that he had found his sister, in poor health and poor circumstances; that she had, in spite of this, promised to take the child for a few months, till he could see what could be done; but she had so evidently offered this in sisterly love, without really the ability to carry it out, that he had come to me to ask my advice, and to enquire about the home I spoke of.

"What could I do, Ada? I told him all, and I shall never forget how he went to the window and stood struggling with his emotion. Then he turned round and took my hand in his, and blessed me, and saying a smothered word about the baby being his only joy, and about writing to explain, he hurried out of the house, too much overcome to say anything more.

"He, however, came back in an hour, and it was arranged that the aunt should keep the baby for a week, and then I should fetch it here.

"Oh, Ada, I do believe that the poor father went back to York with a little bit of hope in his heart; for he wrote to me afterwards, and told me that he had found, as I had said, that 'God was a refuge and strength, and a very present help in time of trouble.'"

The maid now entered and announced dinner, and Christina rose and led the way into the dining-room once more.

Ada whispered on the way, "What shall you do with Alfy?"

But she received no answer, as they were already in the room. There stood the poor little man, looking unhappy enough, by the table; and there sat Maggie, as sweet and smiling as could be, opposite.

Christina asked a blessing, and served the dinner without taking the smallest notice of the offender. He followed the plates in Ellen's hands with his eyes, but did not deign to turn his head.

The meat was eaten and removed, and the pudding came on before he moved a finger. Ada looked appealingly towards Christina, who, however, shook her head. Ellen was just taking up the pudding-dish to carry it out, when Alfy's bravery gave way, and with a sob in his voice he turned to Christina, and, hiding his curly head against her, said, "I sorry, auntie!"

"That's a darling!" said Christina.

And Ada could not help admiring the motherliness which welcomed the first signs of relenting, and caused her to kiss the wet cheek and receive him instantly into favour.

Alfy's dinner was perhaps rather light that day; for he missed his meat altogether. Christina helped him to a large share of pudding, however, but did not keep it on the table for more.

"You can have as much bread with it as you want, dear," she said; "but you know it is a sad truth, that if we do not do right, we must suffer for it."

So a sunny little face climbed up to the table, and a little face opposite gave an angel's smile to welcome him.

[CHAPTER III.]

HOME-SICK.

"WELL, Nellie," said Ada, turning round from a drawer she was sorting over, "what we shall do with you away at grandmamma's all this time I cannot imagine."

Nellie looked up from the depths of the trunk before her, and, pushing a pair of stockings hard into its corner, answered by a sigh.

"There," exclaimed Ada, "now I've depressed you. Of course we shall get on all right; and you like to be missed, don't you, Nellie?"

"Oh, I don't know! I wish I were not going."

"What a goose I am," said Ada, coming over and seating herself on the floor by the trunk. "You will be glad when you are once off. I know the feeling of home-sickness when one is packing up."

Nellie brushed away two or three tears, and went on laying-in her clothes, in silence.

"You are tired," said Ada ruefully, "and I have worried you. We shall get on very nicely; and mamma says you really do want a thorough change."

"The worst is, Ada," answered Nellie, choking down a thick feeling in her throat, "I am afraid mamma looks as if she ought to have 'a thorough change,' and I do not quite see how she is to have it."

"She is to go away with papa when you come back."

"Yes, I know."

"That will not be long, Nellie; and papa could not go now if it were ever so."

"No, no, Ada. Come, I am tired and stupid, and have got worried; but I will try and cheer up."

Ada looked in her face kindly, and went back to her drawer; while Nellie placed the last few things in the box, and then got up and began to prepare for tea.

"Leave that drawer to me to finish, dear," she said at last.

"Why?"

"Because I know where the things go, and shall be able to find them when I come back."

"Very well; and it is almost tea-time, so I will go and see about it. It will be only one day before I shall have it for my duty."