Asmodean flight now, and look down through one or two roofs."

"Why?" asked Honor, in wondering amusement, whilst even Mrs. Disbrowe, having caught the quick words, smiled a little.

"Now then, child," retorted Mrs. Payte, without answering the last question, "what are you poking about for? It is no use putting things ready to her hand-either books or flowers or scent. Bless you, Selina never raises a finger to help herself! What in the world is it you are looking as if you wanted now, Selina?"

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"Nothing," said the sick lady, in her low soft tones, and with no appearance of resenting the harsh questions of her companion.

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Nothing!" echoed Mrs. Payte, with supreme contempt. "Mysterious nothing! How shall I define thy shapeless, baseless, placeless emptiness? Some poet or professor says that, and I'm no wiser than he, and cannot give you what I cannot define, and what has no shape nor base nor place. Where are you going, Honor?"

“I shall not be many minutes," the girl said, as she looked round, to be sure that the invalid

could miss nothing. "I am only going to see Marie."

"Don't be long. Don't waste your time there."

The little kitchen, where Marie lay on the poor couch before the fire, was clean and neat in its bareness, and the French girl's pinched face lay upon a snowy pillow. The pillow was a present from Honor herself, but the whiteness and purity of everything were Marie's own.

"Have you had any dinner, Marie?" asked Honor, gently drawing the fine lace-work from the girl's wasted fingers.

"I did not want any to-day, Miss Craven ; and I did not care to leave my work."

"You work too as she laid it aside.

constantly," said Honor, "Your father tells me you

are at it at five o'clock in the morning, and never leave off until bed-time. It is too much, Marie. Now chat with me while I get you a cup of tea."

Moving brightly about the little kitchen, Honor prepared the meal with a deftness which put a happy amusement into the sick girl's tired eyes; and-watching her, and listening to her,

and talking to her, as Honor led her on to doshe forgot her pain and weakness, and even her constant labour and poverty. So when the tea was ready at last, and Honor sat at the table and waited on her, chatting as if she would not give time to think, Marie caught herself now and then actually laughing.

"Does Mrs. Payte's servant help you a little now?" inquired Honor, when at last she rose to take her leave.

"Yes, she does indeed, Miss Craven-a little. She is growing rather kind to me; but Mrs. Payte-is she not odd? I can never understand her."

"No, it is not easy indeed," smiled Honor. "When will your father be home, Marie ?" "Oh! he is away, Miss Honor. Did you not know?"

"Indeed I did not."

"I thought you would, Miss Craven; because he was sent for by Mr. Keith a week ago."

Marie made a pause here, without knowing it, wondering at the softened brightness of Honor's eyes.

"A week ago, Miss Craven, he read an ad

vertisement for a photographer's assistant, a long way off-more than thirty miles-and father fancied he might do, because he understands his work so well; so we managed to get the money for his railway ticket, and he went. They-they told him, before they asked him a single question, Miss Honor, that he was too old; and so he walked home, for he had no other ticket. It was quite the middle of the night when he came in here, so jaded and white I hardly knew him, and his boots all worn to the ground."

"Then where is he now, Marie?" asked Honor, her eyes dim with pity.

"Now, Miss Honor," the girl said, in a brighter tone, "he is at Westleigh Towers. Mr. Keith seemed to have heard of his disappointment, though father himself did not know how, and the very next day he sent for father to go over there with his camera, as he wanted several photographs taken, and father was to go prepared to stay for a time. Oh! Miss Honor, he was just like a boy that day, and— and yet was ashamed before me of being so happy because—poor father !—I was not going.

As if it was not more to me than going myself, for him to go! Miss Honor," added the girl presently, seeing the tears slowly gather in Honor's beautiful eyes, "father sent me a likeness of Mr. Keith. Perhaps he ought not to have done it, but he did; he knew I should not show it about, but keep it sacredly, and value it, so he sent it. Will you see it, Miss Craven ?" "No, thank you, Marie," said Honor, quietly.

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Oh, do!" urged Marie, drawing the photograph from between the leaves of a book which

lay beside her on the couch, and unfolding it from its silver paper. "Do look, Miss Honor. I think father has taken it beautifully."

So Honor took the picture in her hands, but it was many minutes before the figure grew distinct before her misty eyes. The photograph had evidently included Royden without his knowledge. He was sitting in deep thought, his eyes fixed gravely on the fire, his dogs lying about the rug at his feet.

To one who did not know him, it was the photograph of a very handsome man, thoroughly artistic in the unconscious grace of attitude. But, to one who knew him, it was far more