Hatty’s sake. Hatty is the sickly one of our flock; she has never been strong. When she was a tiny, weeny thing she was always crying and fretful. Father tells us that she cannot help it, but he never says so to her; he laughs and calls her ‘Little Miss Much-Afraid.’ Hatty is full of fear. She cannot see a mouse, as I tell her, without looking round the corner for pussy’s claws.”

“Is Hatty your only sister, Miss Lambert?”

“Oh, no; there are three more. I am the eldest—‘Mother’s crutch,’ as they call me. We are such a family for giving each other funny names. Tom comes next. I am three-and-twenty—quite an old person, as Tom says—and he is one-and-twenty. He is at Oxford; he wants to be a barrister. Christine comes next to Tom—she is nineteen, and so pretty; and then poor Hatty—‘sour seventeen,’ as Tom called her on her last birthday; and then the two children, Ella and Katie; though Ella is nearly sixteen, and Katie fourteen, but they are only school-girls.”

“What a large family!” observed Miss Sefton, stifling a little yawn. “Now, mamma has only got me, for we don’t count Richard.”

“Not count your brother?”

“Oh, Richard is my step-brother; he was papa’s son, you know; that makes a difference. Papa died when I was quite a little girl, so you see what I mean by saying mamma has only got me.”

“But she has your brother, too,” observed Bessie, somewhat puzzled by this.

“Oh, yes, of course.” But Miss Sefton’s tone was enigmatical, and she somewhat hastily changed the subject by saying, plaintively, “Oh, dear, do please tell me, Miss Lambert, what you think I ought to do when we reach Cliffe, if we ever do reach it. Shall I telegraph to my friends in London, and go to a hotel? Perhaps you could recommend me one, or——”

“No; you shall come home with me,” returned Bessie, moved to this sudden inspiration by the weary look in Miss Sefton’s face. “We are not strangers; my father and your mother were friends; that is sufficient introduction. Mother is the kindest woman in the world—every one says so. We are not rich people, but we can make you comfortable. To be sure, there is not a spare room; our house is not large, and there are so many of us; but you shall have my room, and I will have half of Chrissy’s bed. You are too young”—and here Bessie was going to add “too pretty,” only she checked herself——“to go alone to a hotel. Mother would be dreadfully shocked at the idea.”

“You are very kind—too kind; but your people might object,” hesitated Miss Sefton.

“Mother never objects to anything we do; at least, I might turn it the other way about, and say we never propose anything to which she is likely to object. When my mother knows all about it, she will give you a hearty welcome.”

“If you are quite sure of that, I will accept your invitation thankfully, for I am tired to death. You are goodness itself to me, but I shall not like turning you out of your room.”

“Nonsense. Chriss and I will think it a bit of fun—oh, you don’t know us yet. So little happens in our lives that your coming will be quite an event; so that is settled.” And Bessie extended a plump little hand in token of her good will, which Miss Sefton cordially grasped.

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CHAPTER II.

“HERE IS OUR BESSIE.”

An interruption occurred at this moment. The friendly guard made his appearance again, accompanied by the same white-haired old clergyman whom Bessie had noticed. He came to offer his services to the young ladies. He cheered Miss Sefton’s drooping spirits by reiterating the guard’s assurance that they need only fear the inconvenience of another hour’s delay.

The sight of the kind, benevolent countenance was reassuring and comforting, and after their new friend had left them the girls resumed their talk with fresh alacrity.

Miss Sefton was the chief speaker. She began recounting the glories of a grand military ball at Knightsbridge, at which she had been present, and some private theatricals and tableaux that had followed. She had a vivid, picturesque way of describing things, and Bessie listened with a sort of dreamy fascination that lulled her into forgetfulness of her parents’ anxiety.

In spite of her alleged want of imagination, she was conscious of a sort of weird interest in her surroundings. The wintry afternoon had closed into evening, but the whiteness of the snow threw a dim brightness underneath the faint starlight, while the gleam of the carriage lights enabled them to see the dark figures that passed and repassed underneath their window.

It was intensely cold, and in spite of her furs Miss Sefton shivered and grew perceptibly paler. She was evidently one of those spoiled children of fortune who had never learned lessons of endurance, who are easily subdued and depressed by a passing feeling of discomfort; even Bessie’s sturdy cheerfulness was a little infected by the unnatural stillness outside. The line ran between high banks, but in the mysterious twilight they looked like rocky defiles closing them in.

After a time Bessie’s attention wandered, and her interest flagged. Military balls ceased to interest her as the temperature grew lower and lower. Miss Sefton, too, became silent, and Bessie’s mind filled with gloomy images. She thought of ships bedded in ice in Arctic regions; of shipwrecked sailors on frozen seas; of lonely travellers laying down their weary heads on pillows of snow, never to rise again; of homeless wanderers, outcasts from society, many with famished babes at their breasts, cowering under dark arches, or warming themselves at smoldering fires.

“Thank God that, as father says, we cannot realize what people have to suffer,” thought Bessie. “What would be the use of being young and happy and free from pain, if we were to feel other people’s miseries? Some of us, who are sympathetic by nature, would never smile again. I don’t think when God made us, and sent us into the world to live our own lives, that He meant us to feel like that. One can’t mix up other people’s lives with one’s own; it would make an awful muddle.”

“Miss Lambert, are you asleep, or dreaming with your eyes open? Don’t you see we are moving? There was such a bustle just now, and then they got the steam up, and now the engine is beginning to work. Oh! how slowly we are going! I could walk faster. Oh! we are stopping again—no, it is only my fancy. Is not the shriek of the whistle musical for once?”

“I was not asleep; I was only thinking; but my thoughts had travelled far. Are we really moving? There, the snow-plow has cleared the line; we shall go on faster presently.”

“I hope so; it is nearly eight. I ought to have reached London an hour ago. Poor Neville, how disappointed he will be. Oh, we are through the drift now and they are putting on more steam.”

“Yes, we shall be at Cliffe in another ten minutes;” and Bessie roused in earnest. Those ten minutes seemed interminable before the lights of the station flashed before their eyes.

“Here she is—here is our Bessie!” exclaimed a voice, and a fine-looking young fellow in an ulster ran lightly down the platform as Bessie waved her handkerchief. He was followed more