you any pain?”

    “No, sir.”

    “O go out erposed Bessie.

    “Surely not! ishness.”

    I t so too; and my self-esteem being ly, “I never cried for suce going out in the carriage. I cry because I am miserable.”

    “Oh fie, Miss!” said Bessie.

    ttle puzzled. I anding before eadily:  very brig I dare say I sured yet good-natured looking face.  leisure, he said—

    “ made you ill yesterday?”

    “Sting in her word.

    “Fall!  so   be eight or nine years old.”

    “I  explanation, jerked out of me by anotified pride; “but t did not make me ill,” I added; wo a pinch of snuff.

    As urning to coat pocket, a loud bell rang for ts’ dinner;  it ’s for you, nurse,” said ure till you come back.”

    Bessie ayed, but so go, because punctuality at meals  Gateshead hall.

    “t make you ill; hen?” pursued Mr. Lloyd when Bessie was gone.

    “I ill after dark.”

    I sa time.

    “G! , you are a baby after all! You are afraid of gs?”

    “Of Mr. Reed’s g I am:  room, and  to it at nig; and it o s me up alone  a candle,—so cruel t I t it.”

    “Nonsense! And is it t makes you so miserable? Are you afraid no?”

    “No: but nighings.”

    “ otell me some of them?”

    o reply fully to tion!  it o frame any ans analyse tially effected in t, t o express t of t and only opportunity of relieving my grief by imparting it, I, after a disturbed pause, contrived to frame a meagre, t , true response.

    “For one ters.”