have thought it a peculiar style of beauty, for she had dark-brown eyes and fair hair—rather an uncommon combination.

She was small, too, and very pale, and yet not fragile-looking; on the contrary, she had a clear look of health, but there was a petulant curve about the mouth that spoke of quick temper, and the whole face seemed capable of great mobility, quick changes of feeling that were perfectly transparent.

Bessie was quite aware that her new acquaintance was taking stock of her; she was quietly amused, but she took no apparent notice.

“Is Cliffe-on-Sea your destination?” she asked presently.

“No; is it yours?” with a quick note of alarm in her voice. “Oh, I am so sorry!” as Bessie nodded. “I hoped we should have travelled together to London. I do dislike travelling alone, but my friend was too ill to accompany me, and I did not want to stay at Islip another day; it was such a stupid place, so dull; so I said I must come, and this is the result.”

“And you are going to London? Why, your journey is but just beginning. Cliffe-on-Sea is where I live, and we cannot be more than two miles off. Oh, what will you do if we are detained here for two or three hours?”

“I am sure I don’t know,” returned the other girl disconsolately, and her eyes filled with tears again. “It is nearly five now, and it will be too late to go on to London; but I dare not stay at a hotel by myself. What will mamma say? She will be dreadfully vexed with me for not waiting for Mrs. Moultrie—she never will let me travel alone, and I have disobeyed her.”

“That is a great pity,” returned Bessie gravely; but politeness forbade her to say more. She was old-fashioned enough to think that disobedience to parents was a heinous offence. She did not understand the present code, that allows young people to set up independent standards of duty. To her the fifth commandment was a very real commandment, and just as binding in the nineteenth century as when the young dwellers in tents first listened to it under the shadow of the awful Mount.

Bessie’s gravely disapproving look brought a mocking little smile to the other girl’s face; her quick comprehension evidently detected the rebuke, but she only answered flippantly:

“Mamma is too much used to my disobedience to give it a thought; she knows I will have my way in things, and she never minds; she is sensible enough to know grown-up girls generally have wills of their own.”

“I think I must have been brought up differently,” returned Bessie simply. “I recollect in our nursery days mother used to tell us that little bodies ought not to have grown-up wills; and when we got older, and wanted to get the reins in our own hands, as young people will, she would say, ‘Gently, gently, girls; you may be grown up, but you will never be as old as your parents—’” But here Bessie stopped, on seeing that her companion was struggling with suppressed merriment.

“It does sound so funny, don’t you know! Oh, I don’t mean to be rude, but are not your people just a little bit old-fashioned and behind the times? I don’t want to shock you; I am far too grateful for your company. Mamma and I thoroughly understand each other. I am very fond of her, and I am as sorry as possible to vex her by getting into this mess;” and here the girl heaved a very genuine sigh.

“And you live in London?” Bessie was politely changing the subject.

“Oh, no; but we have some friends there, and I was going to break my journey and do a little shopping. Our home is in Kent; we live at Oatlands—such a lovely, quiet little place—far too quiet for me; but since I came out mamma always spends the season in town. The Grange—that is our house—is really Richard’s—my brother’s, I mean.”

“The Grange—Oatlands? I am sure I know that name,” returned Bessie, in a puzzled tone; “and yet where could I have heard it?” She thought a moment, and then added quickly, “Your name cannot be Sefton?”

“To be sure it is,” replied the other girl, opening her brown eyes rather wildly; “Edna Sefton; but how could you have guessed it?”

“Then your mother’s name is Eleanor?”

“I begin to think this is mysterious, and that you must be a witch, or something uncanny. I know all mamma’s friends, and I am positive not one of them ever lived at Cliffe-on-Sea.”

“And you are quite sure of that? Has your mother never mentioned the name of a Dr. Lambert?”

“Dr. Lambert! No. Wait a moment, though. Mamma is very fond of talking about old days, when she was a girl, don’t you know, and there was a young doctor, very poor, I remember, but his name was Herbert.”

“My father’s name is Herbert, and he was very poor once, when he was a young man; he is not rich now. I think, many years ago, he and your mother were friends. Let me tell you all I know about it. About a year ago he asked me to post a letter for him. I remember reading aloud the address in an absent sort of way: ‘Mrs. Sefton, The Grange, Oatlands, Kent;’ and my father looked up from his writing, and said, ‘That is only a business letter, Bessie, but Mrs. Sefton and I are old correspondents. When she was Eleanor Sartoris, and I was a young fellow as poor as a church mouse, we were good friends; but she married, and then I married; but that is a lifetime ago; she was a handsome girl, though.’”

“Mamma is handsome now. How interesting it all is! When I get home I shall coax mamma to tell me all about it. You see, we are not strangers after all, so we can go on talking quite like old friends. You have made me forget the time. Oh dear, how dark it is getting! and the gas gives only a glimmer of light.”

“It will not be quite dark, because of the snow. Do not let us think about the time. Some of the passengers are walking about. I heard them say just now the man must have reached Cleveley, so the telegram must have gone—we shall soon have help. Of course, if the snow had not ceased falling, it would have been far more serious.”

“Yes,” returned Miss Sefton, with a shiver; “but it is far nicer to read of horrid things in a cheerful room and by a bright fire than to experience them one’s self. Somehow one never realizes them.”

“That is what father says—that young people are not really hard-hearted, only they do not realize things; their imagination just skims over the surface. I think it is my want of imagination helps me. I never will look round the corner to try and find out what disagreeable thing is coming next. One could not live so and feel cheerful.”

“Then you are one of those good people, Miss Lambert, who think it their duty to cultivate cheerfulness. I was quite surprised to see you look so tranquil, when I had been indulging in a babyish fit of crying, from sheer fright and misery; but it made me feel better only to look at you.”

“I am so glad,” was Bessie’s answer. “I remember being very much struck by a passage in an essay I once read, but I can only quote it from memory; it was to the effect that when a cheerful person enters a room it is as though fresh candles are lighted. The illustration pleases me.”

“True, it was very telling. Yes, you are cheerful, and you are very fond of talking.”

“I am afraid I am a sad chatterbox,” returned Bessie, blushing, as though she were conscious of an implied reproof.

“Oh, but I like talking people. People who hold their tongues and listen are such bores. I do detest bores. I talk a great deal myself.”

“I think I have got into the way for