me. If he had not looked in that way at Papa, I should think that he had no feeling at all.”

"In what way, Miriam?"

"As if he hated him," Miriam said, slowly.

"Oh! so that makes you think better of him?"

"I do not know," Miriam answered, while her face was clouded by an expression of utter despondency, sad to see in one so young. "I will tell you what I think, George, that Uncle Ralph has come to take us away, and I know, from what Papa said, that he will not let you go. And so we shall be parted, although Mamma bade me take care of you."

"As if I was not fit to take care of myself!" replied George indignantly. "You need not make yourself uneasy, Miriam; it seems to me that it is not at all a bad plan: you are not very fit for roughing it in the bush, so I will go and make my fortune, and then come back for you. Even if Uncle Ralph is rather crabbed, you will not be much worse off than you have been at home, for my father never liked you."

"I do not wish him to like me," said Miriam; "I only wish you to like me, and now you will go away and forget me, and all that Mamma tried to teach us."

"No, I shall not forget. My father says that we shall make our fortune in a few years, and then I will come home for you."

"As far back as I can remember, Papa has been talking of making his fortune, and I know the look

which used to come over Mamma's face when he said so. Now we are going away in debt; and when I asked him about mourning, he said that I must get it on credit, or in exchange for some of Mamma's things, for he had no ready money. But Janet has gone off this afternoon with all that was worth selling. She said that she could not leave Mamma when she was dying, but she knew there was no use waiting for her wages, so she must pay herself, and begone. That was true, so I let her go."

for

"And now we have no maid. That is rather a grief, you cannot do all the work of the house."

"No, we must get some one in, but I have not told Papa yet, and he will be very angry. Now I suppose that Uncle Ralph will want something to eat, and I don't know what to do."

"Uncle Ralph is rich enough to pay for our dinner as well as his own," said George.

"You think of nothing but money, George."

"I rather think, Maid Miriam, that you were the first to begin the subject."

"Do not call me by that name," said Miriam, passionately; "it brings back her voice and smile, when I stood by her bedside, and I shall never hear it more. Oh, George! I am so sick and weary, that I wish Mamma said that it was wrong but I do wish that I

were dead."

"It is wrong," said George decidedly, "and foolish

besides. I dare say that you will soon be happy and comfortable, and, at all events, you will not mend matters by dying."

"I do not know. Perhaps I am not ready, as Mamma was, but I am certain that it is best for her. You would think so too, if you saw her silent, smiling face."

"You must not ask me," said George, recoiling from the thought; "it would be of no use, and I am still haunted by that last look of pain."

"Yes, but there is no pain in her face now. It is When I look at her, I

calm and beautiful, and at rest.

think of those lines I once heard her sing:

'Her life was turning, turning,

In mazes of heat and sound,

But for peace her soul was yearning,

And now peace laps her round.'"

"I only know," said George, "that a great many people seem to enjoy life, and so I suppose we shall do the same in due time. Of course I don't mean just now, that would be unfeeling."

The very strength of Miriam's affection for her brother, made her more sensitive to his incapacity to enter into her feelings, and she would not continue the discussion. She crept away to her mother's room, that she might abandon herself to the passionate yearnings of her desolate heart. She was soothed, rather than terrified, by the contemplation of the shrouded form, by the icy coldness of the brow to which she pressed her burning lips: only in the thought how soon she was

to be robbed of this consolation, her composure gave way, and she flung herself on her knees beside the bed, with a low, scarce articulate wail, "Oh, mother, mother!"

Startled by approaching footsteps, Miriam stood up, trembling; for to encounter her father in that room, above all others, was indescribably painful. It was not Mr. Leigh, however, who softly opened the door, and entered with a slow and uncertain step. Ralph Cornwall came up to the bed without perceiving Miriam, who stood in the shadow of the curtain, and gazed long and fixedly on the rigid features which he had last seen, radiant in bright beauty. Memory must have carried him back to those days, for the exclamation, “Poor child!" broke from him, although there was nothing child-like in the lines of the worn and wasted face, and the hair which peeped from below the linen bands was silver-white. He only became aware of his niece's presence as he turned away, and then he said with startled displeasure, unwilling to believe that any had witnessed his emotion: "How long have you been here?"

"I do not know how long. But I am here always, when I am not busy."

"That is not well," aaid Mr. Cornwall. "Come with me now. I wish to speak to you."

Miriam followed her uncle into the passage, but when he would have turned the key in the lock, she stayed his hand.

"You need not, you must not," she said with imperious calmness: "she is mine all that is left to me. And for so short a time. They are coming this very night to place her in the coffin: then they will cover her face, and I shall be shut out for ever."

"The for-ever of this fleeting life," said Ralph Cornwall.

"You may call it so," rejoined Miriam, "for you are old, and your hairs are grey. But I am so young."

To complain of youth as a curse, revealed to Mr. Cornwall the utter desolation of the motherless girl. He would have offered comfort, had he known the way, but he was repelled by the calm, self-possessed manner, and knew not how to approach her. Nor did Miriam seek for sympathy, saying, as if she read his thoughts: "You need not pity me. I can bear it:

even thank God that she is dead."

I can

"Her life was then so loveless?" said Mr. Cornwall, with a quick, keen glance.

Miriam evaded reply, asking, as she followed her uncle into the sitting-room, and discovered that her father was no longer there: "What did you wish to say to me?"

"It is necessary to determine your future life, Miriam, though it may seem heartless to urge the decision so soon. Your father tells me that he proposes to emigrate to Australia, whether as general practitioner, golddigger, or settler, I know not. Any way, it will be a rough, roving life, not fit for a girl of your age. Will