Harman and her father laughed merrily over the Australian uncle's horror of authors and their works, ano

rate. It was not exactly a dirty room, but it lacked all brightness and freshness. The chimney did not draw well, and now and then a great gust of smoke would come down, causing the busy writer to start and rub her smarting eyes. She was a young woman, as young as Charlotte Harman, with a slight figure and very pale face. There were possibilities of beauty in the face. But the possibilities had come to nothing; the feature

the gas, when the room door was pushed slightly ajar, and one of those li

t Daisy, and they is quarreling h'ever so,

y stay down and lay the cloth for tea-I

shabbiness might better have been called an attic, and found herself in the presence of three small children. The two elder ran to mee

fire. Harold and Daisy went on their little knees in front of her. Now that m

care vanished from her eyes as she looked into the innocent eyes of her babies, and as she nursed the seven-months-ol

s when we w

g tim

, mother?" asked

ke their dinner or their tea, and they go out into the woods or the green fields and eat there. I have been to gypsy teas; they are great fun. We lit

me ago, mother?"

time to you, darling; but it

y aren't we rich, or why do

emotion than the mere fact of being

ur father has a curacy in this part of London. Your fa

t we rich?" per

sual to-night, and you and Daisy may come down for a little bit after tea-that is, if you promise to be very good children

Harold, and, "I, m

h shall keep him very quiet and safe; Harold shall sit

s. There was no time for quiet or leisurely movement in that little house; in the dingy parlor, the gas had now been lighted, and the fire burned better and brighter, a

Miss Mitchell's dinner up to her; she is to have a little pie to-night and some baked pota

tions before the rattle of the latch-key was heard in the hall-door, and her husband came in. He was a tall man, with a face so colorless that hers looked almost rosy by contrast; his voice, however, had a certain ring about it, which beto

in to-night, Angus?"

is really dying at last. I pr

eally come? And what wil

anage; Petterick has interest.

, de

teaspoonful of brandy. I want to take it round with me to little Alice. That child has never left her mother's sid

dy, in a little basket, which her husband seldom went out without;

r your breakfast, Angus; I

hoke me, wife," replied the husband; and then buttoning his