"I am afraid it must have been thrown away by some mistake," said Mrs. Sandon. "It is a pity, for it was one of dear Marion's most successful drawings."

It was really too bad of the doctor not to allay their curiosity-but he did not; he had not even the slightest intention of offering to make restitution.

"Well, it doesn't matter very much," said Mr. Sandon. "We can look at Phillis herself now instead of at her portrait. The original is always better than the copy, isn't it, Phillis?"

"Not always," said Phillis saucily. "Don't you know that portraits are often very flattering, Mr. Sandon ?"

"It would not be easy to make yours flattering," said Mrs. Sandon, smiling. "Dr. Trevor, did you ever see the portrait in question? It was wonderfully like."

The doctor turned round as composedly as possible.

"Yes, I saw it," he answered. "I now remember Miss Sandon shewing it to me one day; it was very well done."

But he was obliged to look out of the window again to hide the tell-tale flush which rose to his face as he imagined himself shewing the picture to Phillis some day—some bright day to come-and telling her its history. The thought of those bright days, to which he now sometimes ventured to look forward, sent such a thrill of delight through his frame, that he said good-bye to the company almost immediately, and went to indulge his pleasant meditations alone.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

"What is the meaning of thy thought,
O maiden fair and young?
There is such pleasure in thine eyes,
Such music on thy tongue;
There is such glory on thy face-

What can the meaning be?
'I love my love, because I know
My love loves me.

-CHARLES MACKAY.

EPTEMBER wore on, and Phillis and little Frank enjoyed many a pleasant nutting expedition in the woods, for Phillis had lost none of her taste for rural enjoyments, and Frank was never so happy as

in her company.

"She was so nice to play with," he said, and could tell him such pretty stories, and take him to all sorts of delightful places where his mother did not like to go: to little nooks among the hills to which the town-bred countess could not climb, or down into Brook Valley by the steep winding path, which to his little feet seemed very perilous. And then the barn! No one knew what delightful games went on there in the straw, though Frank's shouts of laughter might be often heard by passers-by.

Those were golden days for little Frank; he no longer

fretted and teased his mother for the toys which she could not afford to buy to him, for Cousin Phillis could always find some amusement for him when other people's suggestions failed. Laura, too, was happier; her face began to lose the look of misery it had so long worn, and to catch a little of the brightness of which Phillis kept an unfailing supply. Still, however, she could not make up her mind to write to her parents; but Phillis did not despair of her doing so some day, though she often wished she would not put it off any longer, when she thought of the worn, harassed expression she had so often seen on her uncle's face before she had left him.

"Phillis," said Laura, as they sat together one evening in the garden at work, "did you say that father and Julia were coming to see you some day?"

They said they would," said Phillis. "I hope they will; I know Julia will, when she can. Oh, Laura! they will find you out then, you know, so why won't you write at once, and tell them you are here?"

They need not find me out," answered Laura, "if I do not choose. I can shut myself up, and you would not tell them if I asked you not."

"I don't know," said Phillis. "I don't expect I should be able to keep it in. And I don't think it is right, Laura, for you not to tell them, and to keep your father so anxious. It is unkind of you."

"Unkind?" said Laura, rather bitterly. "They don't care for me so much as all that, Phillis. If I had gone on living in Italy they would not have seen me for years, perhaps, so why should they want me now?"

"Don't you see!" said Phillis, "it is because they don't know what has become of you. Why, they don't know but that you have died of want, Laura, or thinking you are living in some miserable place working hard for your bread! And oh, Laura! uncle does care very much about you.

Soon after we heard about—about your husband, he went to Milan, just on purpose to look for you, and find out, if he could, where you were. He said that he went to Florence on business, but we knew, though other people didn't, that he did not stay there very long, and that it was business he need not have gone after at all. It was to look for you that he went, and he only came back when he found that it was no use, and that nobody could tell him anything about you."

"Did he do that?" said Laura eagerly, and a softened expression came over her face. "All that time, Phillis, I was wandering about with Frank, not knowing where to go or what to do, till I found my way down to Naples again, and then heard of a vessel just going to sail for England. I came over then, glad enough to get away from the place where I had been so deceived and so miserable. Oh, Phillis! father was always the one who cared for us, and tried to make us happy; poor father! mother wanted to bring us forward, and marry us to great people, but that was only to please her own ambition. Phillis-I can't help saying it— I wouldn't to any one but you, but you know it is true, because you have seen it—I know you have. Oh, if I had had a mother like yours. perhaps I might have been different-perhaps I might have grown up like you, to be loved by everybody, just as you are. I should be jealous of you, if I could, but I can't, because you are not a bit proud or conceited, and I can't help loving you as they all do. No, Phillis, I shall just try and forget that I ever existed at all before I came here; I shall try and imagine that I am very happy, and have not a brigand husband, and that I have never been the miserable creature I was before I knew you. I shall forget that I ever had a home of my own, and a father who used to call me his beautiful queen.'

"No, you mustn't," said Phillis imploringly; "he loves

you just as much now as he did then, and I am sure Julia does too, only living always among so many people, she doesn't stop to think about things, and gets careless, and thinks she doesn't feel anything. But she does really, only I don't think she understands herself a bit."

"Doesn't understand herself?" said Laura. you mean, Phillis?"

"What do

"I don't think she does," said Phillis; "I don't know how to explain it, but she never seemed to know whether she meant things or not, and she would often say she didn't care about things when I knew quite well that she did."

"Julia was always the chatterbox of the family," said Laura, “and she made plenty of mischief by her chattering, I remember. But yet she was the favourite, and I'm sure I don't wonder, for who could like such a proud thing as I, except just for my beauty? And Florence was just as bad as I was, even prouder, I think. Ah, Phillis, those proud people are always miserable! I have been punished for my pride; much I have to be proud of now, haven't I?” and she laughed bitterly.

"I'll tell you what you may be proud of," said Phillis, with a bright loving smile which chased away Laura's bitterness, "your little boy, Laura. Anybody would be proud of such a handsome young son as he is!"

"Yes," said Laura, smiling, "he is beautiful, I know; if it had not been for him, I should have died of wretchedness long ago. Here he comes! Now you will have no more peace, Phillis, till I take him home."

"Yes I shall," said Phillis, "I like playing with him; it's refreshing, especially after I have been sewing so long;" and she tossed aside the little red cloak at which she had been diligently stitching since tea, and jumped up.

"I believe you do like making those cloaks," said Laura, smiling, "though you dislike work in general so much."

Of course Phillis did, for was it not work the doctor had