either mother or sister-I have always been quite alone in the world. But for the future," he went on, "I shall always be able to feel, however far off I may be, that I have left some one in England who is as fond of me as if I really were her brother."

It was not easy for him to speak thus, looking down on the bent head leaning against his arm, at the slight figure convulsed with sobs. It would have been easier to have thrown a kind arm round the girl, and kissed the tears away, and soothed her with fond words and promises, - promises which he could have gone away-and broken! But Philip Rayton was a good man, who was touched with real sorrow at the sight of the girl's distress, and could also, not being very young or very conceited, imagine a time, not so very far distant either, when Cicely would have forgotten him, and when her young life would go on as smoothly again as if he had never troubled its calm waters. For himself, he was not in love, did not even wish to be, for he could see with clear-judging eyes the miseries that would certainly arise from such an imprudent event as a marriage between them two.

But though the facts were clear, it was not so easy to see them with those ruffled auburn locks lying against his arm. Overhead, Jessie having stumbled through many scales and exercises, was now softly and sweetly playing "Home, sweet Home." For many years the memory of that tune haunted Philip Rayton, and the sound of it would always recall those miserable moments spent in the morning-room of 15 Bute Street.

"Cicely," he said at length, the sobs having ceased, "you must not be angry with me, but I must go now. It is never of any use prolonging anything so painful as a farewell, therefore goodbye till our next meeting, which I hope will take place before so very long."

For one second he laid his hand upon her head, almost as if in blessing, then he loosed the hands that still rested on his arm, and moved quietly away. He glanced back when he had reached the door, to take a last look at her.

She was still standing where he had left her, only she had lifted her hands and covered her face with them. Touched by the wretchedness of her aspect as she stood thus all alone, her face flushed with pride and pain, he turned back. "Cicely, I cannot bear that we should part like this," he said, and he took her two hands in his, and removed them from before her face.

She lifted her head then, and looked at him. She was not crying now-her eyes were bright, too bright, and her cheeks were flushed; but as she lifted her head and noted the half-tender, halfpleading gaze bent upon her, she grew as white as marble. She snatched her hands away from his, and with a little stamp, "Go," she cried, fiercely, "I hate you!" And without one other word he went, and she was left alone.

Then with head held very erect, she sat down again in the chair she had lately quitted, and picked up her needlework. Still overhead "Home, sweet

Home" was being played-the clock only pointed to a quarter past one,-and it was all over!

But this was not the point upon which Cicely was dwelling, as she sat sewing with burning eyes and white cheeks. No softness was in her heart: pride, temper, and a host of other little devils were let loose, and prompted the impetuous dig of the needle, and the "I hate him!" which kept repeating itself in her ears.

It may be a shocking sentiment, but I think I prefer poor foolish Cicely Arbuthnot weeping those despairing tears on Philip Rayton's coat-sleeve, to this proud, angry girl, sitting so very upright in her chair, and giving those angry prods with her needle: the former, I think, is the less unpleasing woman of the two.

Philip himself, down-stairs in the hall, had no scornful thoughts about the girl he had just left, -indeed he felt something of a lump rise in his throat when he observed the little moist spot on his sleeve, which was the mark of Cicely's tears. And it was with something very nearly approaching love that he thought of the pretty head that had rested there.

"Poor, warm-hearted child!" he thought, "I am afraid she will not step easily through this troublesome world. But I was right, I am sure: it would never have done. I could not have taken her love —and other things too—and have offered so very little in exchange. She is so young," his thoughts ran on, as the hall-door slammed behind him, "that

she will soon forget. I wonder, will she remember her love or her hate longest?"

From which you will see, that when Philip Rayton was alone he did not disguise from himself that it was the love of her young heart, and the fortune that it was well known would go with that love, that Cicely Arbuthnot had offered him.

79

CHAPTER VII.

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.

"Ah, happy he who owns that tenderest joy,
The heart-love of a child !”

"IT is indeed irony to call this an At Home,' for anything more unhomelike than everything will look, and we shall all look and feel, it would be impossible to imagine."

Thus spoke Elizabeth Stevens, as she stood tired and dusty in the room which served as general sitting-room at No. 39, late one January afternoon, a duster in her hand.

Yes, you are right," Nan replied, rising from her knees in a distant corner of the room, her arms full of various relics, broken toys, &c. "At this moment I hope, with all my heart, that every one may be seized with a wish this evening to follow our example, and also be At Home.' Now, if there were only artists and those sort of beings. expected, much trouble of course, in that case, would be thrown away."

"Yes," said Betty; "artists, mercifully, don't