early that fine morning—the Galatea, for Constantinople; the Siren, for a Norwegian port; the Mermaid, for Genoa; but no one had any recollection of noticing a boy go aboard. Indeed, there were but few people who could have seen him, for few were stirring at that early hour, except those who were obliged to be at their post at sea or on shore, and they were probably too much engrossed with their own concerns to heed him, even if he had been seen.

Patience had borne up bravely under this last sorrow. In some ways Jack's absence was a relief—she had been always treading, as it were, on the edge of a volcano, that might send up fire and smoke at any time.

We all know what a strain it is upon body and mind to be always seeking for peace, while those around us make themselves ready for battle; and the terror at every meal that there would be a scene between Jack and his aunt, with the effort to prevent it, had been a perpetual strain upon Mrs. Harrison. At least that fear and dread were taken from her, and her heart said—

"If only I knew he was well and happy I should be glad to know that he was gone away from so much that jarred and fretted him; but it is the silence and the terrible suspicion they raise that he was a thief that overwhelms me sometimes."

As these thoughts were passing through Mrs. Harrison's mind George Paterson came up; he had been watching her and the children for some minutes, and the sympathy for the poor deserted wife and mother filled his honest blue eyes with tears.

All the gay people about her—the singing of a large party which filled one of the pleasure-boats, the bustle and activity everywhere—seemed to force upon George Paterson the painful contrast between the glad and happy and the sad and deeply-tried woman, whom he loved better than anything in the wide world. Oh that she would let him comfort her, take her to a pleasant home on the Gorlestone Road, with a garden full of flowers, and where peace and plenty reigned!

But George loved Patience too well to weary her with importunity. He would never add a straw's weight to her care by undue persistence in urging his suit.

"Well," he said, pointing to Joy and her companion, "they seem happy enough. It's odd that little Miss Joy should choose for her friend that untaking niece of Joe Skinner's. She is very like him—just as unwholesome-looking and sly too."

"Poor girl! She has a melancholy time of it at home, so Joy tells me. It is just like her to take pity on one who is not cared for."

"I dare say. She is a little darling, and no mistake!"

"This is early-closing day, and a half-holiday at Joy's school—that is why we are out pleasuring. We are to have tea on the leads at Mr. Boyd's. Will you come with us? for we ought to be getting back. I promised Amelia I would be in at six o'clock, as she wants to go walking with Mr. Skinner."

"Well, she had better stay at home, that's certain. That fellow is a rogue, if ever there was one!"

Mrs. Harrison was silent for a moment; then she said quietly, "I have no reason to love him, for he helped to drive my boy out of the house."

"No doubt he did; and—I hardly like to say what I think—but I believe he made a plot about that money-box."

"Oh! I have often thought so, and put away the thought as wrong and wicked."

"We'll speak plain English for once," George Paterson said. "That man means to marry your sister, and get hold of all she possesses."

"Oh, George! Amelia is close on fifty, and Mr. Skinner can't be much over thirty."

"That does not matter; the same thing is done every day. Don't we see great folks setting the example, and ladies of any age marrying young fellows who want their money? You may depend upon it, Skinner has this in his little sly eye. Well, I shan't do him any good by abusing him, nor myself neither; so I'll have done."

"Not a word from Jack," Mrs. Harrison sighed out—"not a word."

"If he is off on a long voyage, as he may be, I never thought you would have a word. You must wait till Christmas for news."

"Till Christmas! Ah! those were his father's last words—'I'll be back by Christmas;' and how many Christmases have come and gone since that day, and never a word—never a sign."

"The dead cannot give either words or signs," George said; and then, as he saw Patience cover her face with her hands, he was sorry that he had uttered what was an obvious truth, and added gently—

"If your husband had been alive he would come or write, for he loved you; and how can any man who loved you forget or change?"

Patience did not reply, and little Miss Joy, having caught sight of George Paterson, came springing towards him.

"Oh! I have got some beautiful shells," she said—"such a big one. Put it to your ear, and listen to the sound of the sea. And Bet has got one too. Come, Bet, and show it."

Bet advanced slowly and awkwardly, her angular shoulders nearly touching her ears, her rough sandy hair gathered into a little knot at the back of her head, on which a very shabby brown hat was set on one side.

Bertha had the cringing, deprecating manner of an ill-used dog. No one liked her, no one cared for her, and she was fully alive to the fact. Only sweet little Miss Joy ever said a kind and pleasant word to her, and her devotion to this merry child filled her whole soul. She dare not show it; she dare not lavish any of the ordinary endearments upon her. She saw the other girls at Miss Bayliff's kiss and fondle her; she heard her praised and admired; she saw little gifts showered upon her—but she did none of these things. Poor Bertha's was a blind and dumb worship for one who smiled at her when others frowned, who could seek her society when others shunned it, and could encourage her with her tasks—so far below her age—when others called her a dunce and an idiot.

The tea on the leads was a great success; although, to be sure, a few black tokens from a neighbouring chimney peppered the cakes, and one or two danced into Mr. Boyd's large breakfast-cup full of tea. Before tea was over, however, the shop-door bell was heard to ring furiously, and Susan, who had been invited to her share of the feast, trudged down, to trudge back, breathless and indignant, after a few minutes' absence, saying—

"Miss Pinckney can't give no one any rest. She is wanting you, Mrs. Harrison, to go and keep the house, as she is off with Mr. Skinner. I shouldn't hurry now if I was you. Let her wait, Mrs. Harrison."

"No; I promised to go back by six o'clock."

"Saint Nicholas clock has not struck yet," said Uncle Bobo. "Don't you hurry, Mrs. Harrison, for we must have a song before we part—eh, my Joy?"

"If you please, Uncle Bobo, let it be 'Tom Bowling.'"

Whereupon Mr. Boyd began to groan forth in not very dulcet tones the familiar song and strain, beginning—

"Here, a sheer-hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling."

Mr. Boyd's voice had not been very musical in youth, and now the sounds seemed to come more from his boots than from his lips. But Joy was a delighted listener. Then she followed with one of Mrs. Alexander's "hymns for little children," and as she sang, in her sweet childish treble, the words seemed to speak peace.

"On the dark hill's western side
The last purple gleam has died;
Twilight to one solemn hue
Changes all, both green and blue.

"In the fold and in the nest,
Birds and lambs are gone to rest;
Labour's weary task is o'er,
Closely shut the cottage door.

"Saviour, now in sweet repose
I my weary eyelids close,
While my mother through the gloom
Singeth from the outer room."

Joy paused, and putting her little hand in Mrs. Harrison's, said—

"I have never any mother but you, dear Goody; and I know she must be glad I've got you, as God took her away from me."

It was very seldom that