One by herself.

BY MRS. CLARA LUCAS BALFOUR.

CHAPTER I.-"NOW, ABOUT THIS GIRL?"

ELL then, my good people, all is settled up and done with. That's the receipt from the undertakerright. There's the amount of your demand. Just sign the bill, Mr. What's-name, -Mr. Stokes, and I'm off by the next train.

My young readers know that a very hurried manner is never respectful, and sometimes, indeed, amounts to insolence. The speaker of the above hasty words was a pompous, florid, loud-voiced man, who appeared to enjoy being in a hurry, as it gave him an increased importance, and an opportunity of directing or ordering others. He looked at his watch as he spoke, and pointed with his disengaged hand at the inkstand on the table before which he was seated, and where a litter of papers showed that he had been examining and settling bills. A man and woman, the first perplexed and the other timid-looking, were on the opposite side of the table, and were evidently bewildered by the rapid and abrupt manner of the speaker.

"Yes," hesitated the man, "all is quite right, Mr. Dunn, sir. But".

"I must be off for Taunton. I have business there; and I go from thence to my home-Bristol-by the evening's express. Receipt that," pointing as he spoke to a bill.

"Certainly, sir," said Mrs. Stokes timidly, making a curtsey as she spoke; "my master, sir, won't detain you, sir, only you see we wants to know about "

"Eh, what now,

fastest tone.

Mrs. Stokes?" said Mr. Dunn, in his loudest and

"Only sir, if you please, you've said nothing about". ; here her voice so completely faitered that her husband came to her aid with a sudden effort, as if compelled.

66

'Nothing about the young "- ?

Oh, ah, I forget-well, now about this girl. Be quick; didn't I understand last night that she could stay with you—stay here, until her mother, or relations, whatever they are, in Australia send for her?"

"Sir, Mr. Dunn," said Stokes, in a more resolute tone than he had yet used, "my wife did say as she could say with us a bit, when we thought the people she belongs to lived in England. But we be poor folks; we live by letting lodgings."

"And there's not much got by that in a poor dull place like Watchet (though so healthy)," chimed in the wife; "and so, sir, you see —

"The long and the short of it is you've slept on your proposal, and you do not think this morning as you did last night."

66 Well, sir," said Mrs. Stokes, raising the corner of her apron, and wiping away a real tear from her eyes, "Mrs. Lumley gave no end of trouble; however, she's gone, and I'll say no ill of her. But yesterday, when the funeral was, and that poor dear young thing a-following, just one by herself-so desolate like, and nobody to take to her-and she so meek and sensible-I did say I'd have her awhile, as she's no relations."

"How do you know that, Mrs. Stokes? Where is she?-call her. Be quick about it."

"She's here, sir," said Mr. Stokes, reaching his hand towards the little bow window, and leading out from the shadow of the curtain a young girl dressed in black.

As the slight trembling form came into the light of the still somewhat darkened room, and was presented to Mr. Dunn, it must be confessed a more desolate-looking creature could scarcely be imagined. Not that there was anything sordid or slatternly in the attire, or repulsive in the looks of the poor girl. Indeed there was painful care and neatness in the arrangement of her black frock; but her face had a scared, lonely expression, as if searching vainly for a friend, as she stood before Mr. Dunn. For a girl of thirteen she was tall-would have looked much older than her age, but that her features were small and delicate, and her soft, dark hair fell in childish natural curls round a very pallid face. Perhaps the contrast of her black dress increased the whiteness of her throat and forehead, and made her look so deathly pale that even the abrupt Mr. Dunn, with an impatient wave of his hand, indicated his permission that she should sit down before him.

“What's your name? I've not much time for talking; so, mind, answer promptly and in few words."

"Harriet!" said a low, clear voice.

"Harriet what?"

"Harriet Lumley I have always been called, but I know that's not quite my own name."

"Not quite your own? You mean that, Lumley being your late aunt' name, you were called by it."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, what is your own name?"

"My aunt never told me, sir."

"Well; what then did she tell you about yourself ?”

"Very little. I wanted often to ask her, but she did not like my speaking about-about-my mother."

The girl's voice had faltered, and broke down quite on the dear word mother. But though there was a quiver of the white lips, the tears, as they gathered in her soft dark eyes, did not overflow them.

'Ah, yes. Likely enough there was no love lost between Mrs. Lumley

and her," said Mr. Dunn, half scornfully, adding, "both had tempers. Girl, have you a temper? If it's like your mother's or your aunt's, I give you a bit of advice. Sharp, for I've no time to dwell on it. Get rid of it, if you mean to keep a place over your head."

A flush of pain rather than anger passed quickly over the pale face, and lighted the depths of the eyes, as the girl said firmly,

-

'Sir, my aunt is dead. I remember only her kindness."

"So-so. It's a pity you can't remember, or don't know more about matters. What do you mean to do?"

"I wrote to Australia yesterday. I found the address of a Mrs. Felix Hartley, Castlemaine, Victoria-that was where my aunt once wrote." "And it will be six or seven months before you can have an answer. Have you thought of that, pray?"

"Yes, sir. There are relatives of my mother's in London. Ought I— could I go to them?" Her voice was pathetic in its pleading tone, and an appealing look came into her eyes.

"Exactly. Yes; you both can and ought to go to them. Though I know nothing-nothing at all of them, in looking over Mrs. Lumley's papers, I have their address. And, to put things clearly, as far as time permits"-here he looked again at his watch-"I'll just explain about you." He addressed himself principally to Mr. and Mrs. Stokes, looking over Harriet's head as he spoke; and, spreading out one hand, he indicated on the palm with the fingers of the other, as if ticking off the incidents of his brief narrative.

"Look here, it all lies in a nutshell about this girl. Mrs. Lumley, who was buried yesterday, had been for years a widow. This Harriet here was her husband's niece. When Mrs. Lumley married him many years ago, he had a sister a mere child, whom he brought up. She was wilful; Mrs. Lumley never liked her. Now this sister mortally offended them by marrying without their consent. It turned out badly, as foolish marriages always do. In less than two years the married pair quarrelled and parted. There was one child-this girl, and she was put out to nurse. The mother went abroad with a family. The father fell into ill health, and on his death-bed sent for Mr. Lumley, and asked him to take care of his child. Lumley was more forgiving than his wife. He made the promise. After the man, this girl's father, died, Mr. Lumley, with much persuasion-he told me so himself-induced his wife to take the child. It was thought a very good thing for her then, for Mr. Lumley was rich. I suppose you were old enough then to remember his mansion?" He looked at Harriet, who bent her head in assent, and he added, "It's six or seven years ago. He failed after that, and the smash up of his property killed him. A poor hundred a-year life annuity was all his wife had, and that she starved on, for she knew no more of management than-than that loose end," pointing as he spoke to a bit of paper which fluttered down.at his touch from the table to the floor.

"No, poor soul," said Mrs. Stokes, "that I can testify, and it's won

derful to me that child is as she is-wonderful-never sent to school, nor set to work, nor taught anything.”

"She'll have to learn, and pretty quickly too," replied Mr. Dunn, severely, adding, as he glanced carelessly at the child, "If I did not know what a poor, handless, shiftless being Mrs. Lumley was, I'd have taken you home and made you of some use among my children, but as it is-no thank you-very sorry, and so is my wife, but must decline - once for all." He rubbed his hands and bowed his head as he spoke, with great selfcomplacency, and then resumed more placidly to Harriet-" Your mother may turn up all right. I think I heard she had married again some years ago, and done better. Mrs. Lumley once hinted to me she was well off, but that you may or may not hear in a few months. The question is, what must you do in the meantime? And, I say, go up to Mrs. Winchfield; she's Mr. Lumley's sister."

"And my mother's sister," interposed Harriet eagerly.

"True, and your mother's sister-some ten years older than your mother, I fancy. I'll tell you what I'll do for you." Mr. Dunn now spoke very importantly. "I'll write to Mrs. Winchfield this very day, and post the letter at Taunton before I leave to-night. They'll get it tomorrow, and you had better go up the next day.'

"That is Sunday, sir," said Harriet.

"Oh, oh, Sunday is it? well, and don't you like to travel that day Did Mrs. Lumley teach you that?"

Harriet made no other answer than "I would rather go up on Monday, sir."

66 Besides, she'd may be get an answer, sir," suggested Mrs. Stokes.

"She must not wait for that. People won't put themselves out of the way about unpleasant things like poor relations. When she gets there they must decide what they will do for her. Do you know the address?" "Bedford Square-I've got the number in a book up-stairs."

There was a rattle of wheels in the street; and Mr. Dunn, gathering together the papers on the table, deposited them in his travelling bag, and shouted at the top of his voice, "My top-coat"-"be quick”—“I'm off""my umbrella "-"there's the cab at last." "My good woman, let me pass; your stairs are so narrow." "Here, Mr. What's-a-name, take my bag.-Driver, open the door." He succeeded in making great confusion, if not great haste, as bustling people generally do. He was so absorbed that he took no further notice of the little white, anxious face that gazed after him as if he—hard, worldly, and pre-occupied-were a link in the chain of life for her devoted hand to cling to.

Harriet stood a minute alone in the passage as Mr. and Mrs. Stokes watched on their threshold the departure of the cab, and then began, without noticing her, talking to a neighbour or two, who sauntered up to have a gossip with them about their lodger, whose funeral they had seen the day before, and whose agent or lawyer had just left.

Harriet shrank away from hearing any more talk about her aunt or her

self. It had been an aggravation of her grief, the constant inquiries and comments of the neighbours. With a benumbed feeling she turned and walked dreamily up-stairs, paused as if involuntarily at the door of a little sitting-room on the first landing, whose window was to the back of the house. She stood a moment or two on the threshold; then entering, shut the door close after her, and looking sadly round, as if she missed some wonted object, she crossed the room and drew up the window-blind. Poor girl! that blind had not been drawn up since four days back; it kept the outer light from falling too brightly on the coffin of her protectress. Even now as the fitful sunshine of an autumn day streamed into the room, Harriet gazed forlornly at the spot where she had knelt weeping to take a last farewell of one who, whether kind or not, was all she had known in this world to claim kindred with.

The first feeling of gentle hearts when bereaved of friends is one of self-condemnation-in some cases amounting to remorse-that more of active love and patient ministering has not been rendered to those whom we can serve no more. Every little omission, even every fancied error, starts up to pain the memory and weigh upon the spirits.

"Oh, if she would but come again,

I think I'd vex her so no more,"

is the penitent cry of affection. Oh, if the dear young inmates of happy homes could think in their perverse or impatient moments how soon change, removal, death, may take away their loved ones; and realize how conscience will surely bring to mind every selfish failing and disobedient action that has interfered with duty and love, they would shrink from planting thorns to mar their own future peace. Harriet had not anything specially to reproach herself with, yet now it seemed to her a sin that she had not loved her aunt more. It must be owned that the sweet buds of tenderness had been checked in Mrs. Lumley's abode. Love, like all other graces, will not flourish free unless cultivated. Weeds of evil grow fast of themselves, flowers of goodness must be carefully trained. Poor Harriet's aunt was a restless, unhappy woman, always purposing and never performing. Some one once told her the bitter truth that "her life was a murmur and a muddle." She meant to have put her niece to school, she meant to have written to that niece's mother, she meant to settle herself down in some economical home, and make the best of her income, but she did nothing. Time and means slipped away, and she went from one lodging and place to another, getting poorer and poorer, until her indecision was somewhat suddenly ended by death! Her few effects-the mere wreck of former affluence-had so diminished in her wanderings from one wateringplace to another, that there was scarcely enough left to pay arrears of rent and funeral, and to clothe her destitute niece in a suit of cheap mourning. Indeed, if it had not been that Harriet herself had a little thrift-box unopened for years, in which two pounds had accumulated, she would have now been as penniless as she was friendless. Still in that room, filled to