"Are you much hurt, darling?" she said, at length.

"Not so badly, but I made a great noise, didn't I!"

Kate did not answer, but wrapping a petticoat round the child, lifted her out of bed.

"Now, Frances, darling, come with me to the window, and I will show you the prettiest sight you ever saw, and we will forget all our troubles. Look at the roofs with the snow on them, and the moon making such strange, pale lights on the snow. Look at the icicles—did you ever see such lovely ones! Look at the trees—every tiniest little branch covered with frost! Look at the pictures the frost has made upon the window,—see, there are forests,—and oh, more wonderful things than I could tell.

"Nobody loves you and me, Frances. We've only got each other,—and I hate everybody but you (you needn't do that though). But I am glad things are so pretty. One might almost think that somebody had loved you and me, and cared to make everything so pretty to please us!" Kate's eyes softened as she said this,—she had beautiful eyes, large and dark. The rest of her face was plain: it showed much strength of purpose, but little feeling. Poor Kate! the furrows on her forehead, the old, sad smile, so unlike a child's, and the bony hands, told of much hard work, much care, and deep and painful anxieties in the past. She was sitting on the window ledge, half supporting little Frances in her arms. It was no new attitude to Kate. Her figure was stunted and slightly bent from the efforts she had made years ago to carry her little sister about; but the weight of little Frances had rested upon her in another way also, and it was perhaps owing to her brave efforts to shield the child from evil and from grief that the contrast in appearance was so marked between the two sisters. Frances with her soft little pink and white face, her solemn eyes, and smiling mouth, and without a hard line anywhere, looked as if life had smiled upon her.

All through the day the little strangers kept close together, and took very little notice of what went on around them. They ate their Christmas dinner in solemn silence, and declined to join in the games. Mother Agnes was disappointed, for her whole heart was bound up in her children's happiness; and least of all she could bear to see sad faces on Christmas Day. She watched Kate with much interest, but could not wholly understand her.

Before many months had passed, a curious transformation came over Kate. She became the recognised leader of the children. Mother Agnes saw with despair Jane's influence waning before that of this strange new girl. Jane was so safe, so true, so dependable; and Kate, well, who could trust Kate, with her odd ways of going on? Sometimes she would keep the younger ones awake half the night telling them the wildest of tales. She had laws of her own for the play-hours, and a secret system of rewards and punishments. But, worst of all, she was not straightforward. Mother Agnes, with her true, honest nature, was cut to the heart to find that Kate could act a part, and did not scruple to do so, to shield herself and her little sister from punishment.

Kate was popular now, and yet no one loved her, and she loved no one except little Frances. She never thought any trouble too great to be taken for her little sister. If any one said a rough word to Frances, Kate contrived to punish the offender in a way that was not easily forgotten. She helped Frances with her lessons; shielded her from blame; dressed dolls for her through whole long summer afternoons; told her stories that aimed vaguely at having a good moral; answered her childish questions with infinite patience.

The summer and autumn passed, and Christmas came and went; and after Christmas an event happened, the memory of which no lapse of years could ever efface from poor Kate's mind. A certain morning dawned, just like other mornings, bright and cold; lessons, house-work and play went on as usual, only, as the day was drawing to its close, some men came to the door, carrying a little prostrate figure; and Kate was standing in the doorway, and saw it all—saw her poor Frances lying unconscious in the men's arms, her head terribly bruised, and her pretty, fair curls all tossed over a deathly white face.

She was fond of clambering about by herself, and had slipped from the roof of a little outhouse, and fallen on her head.

She was put to bed in the sick ward, and the doctor sent for. For three days and three nights Mother Agnes and Kate watched beside her; on the fourth day the doctor told them that he could do no more. Frances wandered much through those last days, talking confusedly of green fields, and birds singing, and of flowers. Sometimes she would sing little snatches of the hymns they learnt in school; and she often spoke—as little dying children do speak of Christ. Mother Agnes' tenderness to poor Kate almost exceeded her tenderness to the dying child, but Kate made no response to it. She answered in monosyllables, and hung down her head with its mass of bushy hair, and dark eyes gleaming strangely under her overhanging brow.

All was over very soon, and Kate was left with a memory, and with a tiny little grave to tend.

Mother Agnes felt for her out of the depths of a womanly heart, but Kate either could not, or would not speak of her sorrow to any living being.

She gave up all her odd ways, and became quiet, and very gentle; and as months passed on Mother Agnes began to think that Kate had really improved in character. She showed signs of talent in so many directions that the Mother thought of training her for a schoolmistress, and took real delight in planning for the child's future, except when now and then some curious little trait of character would raise an uncomfortable feeling which could not be dispelled.

CHAPTER II.

THE FLIGHT.

A confirmation was to be held during the spring in the neighbouring village; and the clergyman who prepared the Orphanage children looked upon Kate as a most promising candidate; she was gentle, and attentive, and wrote her papers with so much care.

The Confirmation day dawned as sweetly and as brightly as a Confirmation day should do. The birds were singing their hearts out in the Orphanage garden; primroses and wallflowers were blooming in every corner; the apple-trees were in festive array, and little pink and white petals floated on the breeze, and came in at the open windows.

Then a troop of little girls in grey dresses with white caps assembled, prayer-book in hand, at the door, waiting for Mother Agnes.

What could keep Mother Agnes so long? The bells have been ringing for nearly half-an-hour, and they would certainly be late! No, here she comes, but with a very grave face—much too grave—and oh, where is Kate?

"Children, we must start," said the Mother sternly, "Kate is not coming." Naturally the children wondered, and questioned amongst themselves what had happened, but they little suspected the real facts. Mother Agnes had gone to look for Kate in the dormitory, feeling that she should like to take the child's hand in hers, and say something to comfort and to strengthen her. But Kate was not in the dormitory. Her grey Sunday dress lay, neatly folded on the bed, the Confirmation cap arranged on the top of it, and by its side a note, addressed in a bold, round hand to Mother Agnes.

What on earth could this mean? Mother Agnes stared at the dress, fingered the note, and then unfastened it with a hand that trembled a little. The contents were these—

"DEAR MOTHER AGNES,—You have been good to me, so I will tell you that I am leaving, and not going to come back any more. And it is not because I do not like you, for I do, though I have never loved any one but Frances; but I cannot stay in this place any more. Oh! you do not know what the pain is that I bear. When the birds sing, I seem to hear Frances'