"Mrs. Trevor was very glad to see you, I have no doubt," he said gravely; then, more eagerly, he added, "How shall I ever thank you, my child, for all you have done for her?"

Phillis shook her head.

"I hope you will never find out," she said, demurely, "because it is only what I like to do, Dr. Trevor."

He smiled.

"But if I ever should find out how to reward you, Miss Phillis, you would not refuse to let me do so, would you?"

Yes," said Phillis, "because I shouldn't deserve it. Dr. Trevor, she talked to me about the sea to-day, and about your father."

"The sea!" said the doctor eagerly. "Miss Phillis, her lips have been sealed on that subject ever since my father's death. She will be better if she can speak of it; she has kept the terror of it to herself, until I have sometimes feared lest she should lose her reason. It would be better for us both," he added, speaking half to himself, as though he had forgotten Phillis's presence. "Her terror, and my love of―of that, have made a barrier between us all these years. I should be glad if it were broken away."

Phillis looked up with a face full of sympathy, and the soft tones in which she said the simple words, "I am so sorry!" recalled the doctor to himself.

"Are you sorry?" he said very gently. "My child, you have taught me something too-you have taught me to be less restless and discontented, and made me feel that there is something besides the sea to live for."

He pulled himself up suddenly; but Phillis had no idea of applying those words to herself, and he had not meant that she should, although in his own secret heart he knew that Phillis Lascar herself formed a large part of that something. Her very innocent face reassured him, and he said, with a smile :

"I wish sometimes that I could carry you about in my pocket, and make you shine into some of the very dark places I see now and then. There is Woodbridge, a miserable little place, a few miles from here, where a great deal of sunshine is wanted. Would you like to do something to help a large family of little ones?"

"Oh yes!" said Phillis eagerly. "Tell me what I can do, Dr. Trevor. I should like to do something for them very much."

"It is a very poor family just come into the place," he said; "the father is at sea, and they have very little to live upon. Some warm clothing for the children, and some of Mrs. Overton's fresh milk and eggs, if she would spare them, would be very acceptable. I don't mind asking her, for I know she likes to help such cases. Perhaps you will plead with her for me?"

"Oh yes," said Phillis, "I will tell her about them; and then we will get a basket ready for them, and perhaps Mrs. Overton and I might take it. What is the name,

Dr. Trevor?"

"Russell," he answered. "They are nice people, but miserably poor. Thank you, Miss Lascar. I must not keep you from your walk any longer; I'm afraid you won't have time for a very long one now."

"I don't want a long one," said Phillis, smiling; "I shall just go and look at my waterfall, and then I shall go home, and make frocks for those poor children."

"Well, don't work at them too hard," said Dr. Trevor, as he drove off; and Phillis took her walk in high spirits, and could talk of nothing all that evening but calico, flannel, and eggs.

P

HILLIS awoke next morning with her head full of plans for the relief of the poor Russell family, and thought so much of them while she was dressing, that it was rather late when she came downstairs, and Mr. and Mrs. Overton were already seated at the breakfast-table.

"Here is a letter for you, dear," said the old lady; "the first you have had since you have been here, isn't it?"

"A letter for me!" said Phillis slowly. "From whom can it be?" and she turned it over, half-afraid to open it. "I don't know the writing in the least. Can any one at Elfinburn have heard where I am, and have written to me?"

"Suppose you open it," said Mrs. Overton, smiling; "why, you look quite afraid of it, Phillis!"

She looked troubled herself, however, and watched Phillis's face rather anxiously while she read it. Phillis threw it down at last, and said, with a half-sob:

"It is just what I couldn't help being afraid it was; they have found out that I am here-those cousins of mother's, and they want me. Mrs. Overton, you won't let me go away from you, will you?"

"What!" said Mr. Overton. "Who wants you, Phillis? There, don't look so pale about it, my child; tell us what it is."

"They are at Normanville," said Phillis, "and they are coming over here to see me; it is mother's cousin, Mr. Armfield; he is there with his wife and two daughters, and he wants me to go and live with them. But I don't want to go," she added, passionately; "I want to stay with you."

"How has he heard of you?" asked Mrs. Overton. "Don't fret yourself, dear Phillis; we will see what can be done."

"They have been in Paris since last spring," said Phillis, gulping down some tears; "they were there when mother and I left Elfinburn; you know we had not heard of them for years. They came back, about a month ago, to their home in London, and one day Mr. Armfield came upon an old newspaper, which had come for him after he had gone to Paris, and been left for him in his study, and in turning it over he saw an account of that accident, and mother's name. He had seen papa's death mentioned in a paper some time before, he says, and so he wondered what had become of me, and came down to Normanville a little while ago to find out all about the accident, thinking he might hear something of me. Well, he met that old clergyman of Cragsfoot one day, and heard about me from him—about my living with you, and he says that now he will take care

of me himself, and that they are all coming over to see me to-morrow before they go on to Brighton. It is rather a kind letter-you can read it; but he doesn't say a word about his wife. I don't expect she wants me, if he does, and perhaps he only wants me because he thinks he ought. What shall I do? I need not go to them, need I? Because I don't love them, and I do love you.”

Mrs. Overton looked very troubled.

"It has come so suddenly, dear Phillis," she said, "that I don't know what to think of it. I can't bear the thought of parting with you, my child; but we must think of what would be for your own good. We cannot decide anything until we have seen your friends. Don't worry yourself about it to-day. Run out and look for some eggs in the barn, and we will have the carriage, and go to Woodbridge this morning with a basket of good things for those poor people."

But Phillis had lost all her interest in the Russells, and the drive was a very silent one; and though she stitched at a little frock for the baby all the afternoon, her thoughts were far away. The letter weighed on her mind all day, and perhaps almost more on Mr. and Mrs. Overton's. They realised, more than Phillis did, that Mr. Armfield's claim might not be so easily set aside, and they were sorely puzzled to know what would be best for her. Would it be good for her to see the world, of which she at present knew nothing? or would it sully the frank, childlike nature? Anything rather than that, they thought; but still it was a hard matter to decide, and night did not solve the difficulty.

Phillis was very restless all the next morning, and wandered about the fields and garden, unable to settle to anything. It was about three o'clock in the afternoon when she heard carriage-wheels in the lane, which sound made her turn and flee precipitately into the house.

"They are coming!" she cried. "Oh, Mrs. Overton, don't let me go!"