Our married sisters have kissed us affec tionately, but with reserve, and gone mincing down the steps, not half so hearty and handsome a pair as came running up them three hours ago.

"If I can be of any service to you, Sieviking, command me," says Sir Peter, giving my hand the grip of a man, not a petit mâitre.

"Thank you, sir," I say, returning it, "my profession is chosen; if I don't succeed in it by my own efforts, I shall then be grateful for your patronage."

"Take care pride is not your ruin," he says, carelessly, and so goes, leaving one bright face only among those clustered about the doorHetty's.

When they are really gone, she undoubles her pretty fist and shows me what is tightly squeezed up inside it.

"There!" she cries, triumphantly, "Jill and I are going off to Whiteley's the first thing to-morrow morning to spend it!"

A trip to Whiteley's, with money in her pocket, is to Hetty as exquisite an enjoyment as "paying away" is to Jill.

LETTER!" cries the Squiffer, bursting in, on the morning of Hetty's departure; "and what do you think? It's addressed to father."

We gather round it in silence—yes, it is addressed to John Sieviking, Esq., and has been sent on here from our old home; the postmark is Canadian. It lies on the table before us, no one offering to break the seal, till Jill says, in a low voice:

it." And I do.

"Dick, you must open it."

"What is it?” they cry, as I read on and on, my face lengthening at every word, till by the time I have done, it is almost as long as Pink May's train.

"Would you have thought we could cut it any finer, aunt," I say, addressing her, "either in our clothes or our food?"

66

Impossible, dear boy; if it weren't so hot you'd catch your deaths of cold, you wear so little."

66

"We shall have to wear less," I say, dryly,

or take it in turns to remain in bed, for in a few days there will be another body to clothe, and a fresh mouth to feed."

"Good Lord!" says Anak.

"Then I pity

the new mouth and body—that's all."

"What do you mean?" cries Jill, picking up the letter; "it can't be one of the boysthey went away after poor father died. H'm, h'm

-I remember the name (she looks at the signature); he was father's greatest friend at college."

"He is dead," I say briefly; "he was dying when he wrote that letter-a postscript in another hand says so-and he bequeaths his little daughter to his old friend John Sieviking, praying of him to support her out of his plenty till she is able to earn her own bread."

"Our plenty!" The letter reads like a grim jest. "A second postscript says that she sails by the same ship as brings the letter," says Jill, turning over the page," and that the captain will see her to her journey's end. Why, Dick! she must be at Sieviking at the present moment."

"I say, she'll be cutting Hetty out with old Menzies," remarks Anak. "Does it say how old she is ?"

"Fourteen."