table were cups and saucers, and the old lady was pouring out tea for herself and her husband from a curiously-shaped teapot, with ivy leaves running all over it. It was strange how Phillis, in the midst of her overwhelming sorrow, noticed these little things; but in after years she remembered nothing that she had seen on this dreadful day more distinctly than the odd shape of that teapot, and the funny pattern which trailed over the old-fashioned cups and saucers. She had watched them several minutes before the old lady saw that she was awake; then she brought her a cup of tea, saying gently-"You must drink it, my child;" and Phillis felt too weak and weary to refuse. She could not eat, however, and setting down her cup, said in a tone of such pain that it brought tears to her hearers' eyes:"You said I should see my mother."

The old lady glanced at her husband, then lighted a candle, and saying, "I will take you to her now, my dear," she led the way upstairs into a small bed-room, and there, on a white quilt, Phillis's mother lay. The body had been draped in white by the old lady and her servant, and they had laid an early rose or two on the cold crossed hands. There was nothing in that motionless figure to frighten any one. The blow, whatever it was, which had killed her, had left no mark, and it was evident that death had been instantaneous, for there was no expression of pain on the sweet face, only a look of perfect rest and peace. Phillis caught her breath, but she shed no tears; only knelt down by the bedside and put one arm round her sleeping mother, hiding her face in the pillow. One low moan, "Mother— mother!" escaped her lips, and then she was quite still.

The old lady watched her hesitatingly a few minutes, and then went downstairs; that room was no place for her then. She waited half-an-hour, three-quarters, a full hour, and still Phillis did not come; then she went upstairs again, and softly opened the door. Phillis had not moved.

"My child," she said, "you must come with me now; it is not good for you to stay here any longer."

She spoke very gently, and Phillis lifted up a white face, with dark rings round the eyes, but no sign of tears, and suffered herself to be led away without a word. They went downstairs again, and Phillis sat down on a low stool near the fireplace, and buried her face in her hands. The two old people watched her silently for some minutes; then the old lady drew her chair to the fireplace, and made Phillis rest her head on her lap. Phillis looked up then, and said, in a tone of unnatural calmness :

"Do you think I shall get my box again? There are some things inside-a picture of my mother-that I could not bear to lose ;" and she shivered a little.

"I have been thinking about your boxes," the old lady answered. "Our man shall go to the nearest station and inquire about them. I could not send him before, for I did not know your name.'

"Lascar," said Phillis.

"There are three boxes; one of mine, and two of mother's, and one or two furniture things. We are going to another home. I don't care about anything except the boxes."

"We shall get them back, I dare say," said the old lady ; "don't fret yourself about them, dear child. Have you come a long way to-day?"

"Yes," answered Phillis, "from Kendal; and we were going to Normanville, on the coast. I don't know what name I am to call you."

"Mrs. Overton," said the old lady. "Have you any friends to whom you would like me to write for you?"

"No," said Phillis, shaking her head, "I haven't any relations—at least I don't know them; I don't think there is anybody. I am so tired," she added, wearily; "may I go to bed?"

"Yes, my child, certainly," answered Mrs. Overton;

"but could you not take something first-a biscuit, or a glass of milk?"

"No, thank you," said the young girl, pushing back the curls off her temples; "I think I only want to go to sleep."

"Then you shall go to bed at once," said the old lady; and she took her upstairs into a cosy little room, containing a tent-bed with pink draperies, and pretty light furniture. "I think it is all comfortable for you," she said, "but you must ring the bell if you want anything. You don't mind sleeping alone, my child? My room is not far off."

"What, dearie?" said Mrs. Overton, as she hesitated, and changed from white to red in turn.

"I must kiss mother before I go to bed," said Phillis, in a low voice, and clenching her hands nervously.

Mrs. Overton led the way to the quiet little room where the body lay, and Phillis kissed the pale face passionately, but still without losing the unnatural calmness which almost frightened the old lady. She led her back to her room and tenderly helped her to undress.

"I did not ask you before, my child," she said, "were you hurt at all!"

Phillis shuddered. "No," she said, "I think not, unless my head-it aches very much."

"I will bathe it," said Mrs. Overton, "and it will be better in the morning. There, is that more comfortable?" "Yes," said Phillis, closing her eyes; "you are very kind to me."

Her lips quivered a little, and she raised her face, childish fashion, to be kissed. Mrs. Overton kissed her tenderly, and went downstairs with a heavy heart.

"I don't know what to do with her," she said to her husband; "she does not shed a tear. She will be very ill soon, if she goes on like this. Poor little thing! I wonder who she is? Kendal! why, that is in

"Westmoreland," said her husband.

"She is a pretty

little thing, too; what our Rose used to be, wife. If it is true that this poor child has no friends, she shall stay with I think she has been sent to us on purpose."

us.

"Yes," said Mrs. Overton, "I love her already. She is very young to be left friendless.

lose a mother in such a manner.

It is a terrible sorrow to

We saw the accident, and

that they could not have had the least warning. Oh, John, I shan't forget the dreadful sight I've seen to-day! It will be a long time before you will get me to go round that way with you again."

"Yes, it was not fit for you to see," he said; "but you would have your way, you know, and if we are able to do this poor child any good we need not be sorry. She did not tell you anything more upstairs?"

"No," answered his wife, "and I could not ask questions to-night; perhaps we shall be able to find out a little more to-morrow. It gives me a turn to think of her-left all alone in the world-and her poor mother lying dead just over our heads. I am going to bed, John; I think I shall feel better after a night's rest."

CHAPTER II.

"I heard a brooklet gushing

From its rocky fountain near,
Down into the valley rushing,
So fresh and wondrous clear."

-LONGFELLOW.

Twas late when Phillis came downstairs next morning, and kind Mr. and Mrs. Overton, who had waited breakfast for her, were shocked at her colourless face, and at the dark lines under her eyes. said that she had slept soundly, but the sleep did not seem to have been a refreshing one, and she could eat nothing.

She

"May I go out?" she asked, as soon as breakfast was over. She felt as if she could not stay in the house any longer, as if she must walk anywhere, walk miles, to get rid of the heavy burden which seemed to be crushing her brain. "I will come back," she said, seeing a look of hesitation on Mrs. Overton's face; "I will come back byand-by, only I want to go out now so much. It is so

dreadful to sit still!"

“Yes, dearie, you may go," said the old lady, compassionately; "only don't wander too far by yourself in this strange place, lest you get lost."

Phillis put on her hat, and walked quickly through the