less, lightless features, and then gently but firmly took her hand.

'You must come away, my dear young

lady,' he said; 'your father is no longer here.'

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He is not dead,' she cried.

'Oh no; he cannot be dead. He was not thinking of death, he was only thinking of me.'

'He was quite right,' returned the doctor, calmly. He was thinking of your future and not his own. I honour him for it. Kiss him, child, and come away.'

He spoke to her and treated her as if she had really been but a child. He held her while she stooped down and kissed the dead man's face; he supported her with his arm into the next room, and, placing her in a chair with her white face hid in her hands, he left her alone with her sorrow. The blow had utterly overwhelmed her, its suddenness had been so far merciful that it had numbed her sense of loss; the retina of her mind was at first only able to retain its last impression. Could it be possible that that was a correct one? The wildest nightmare dream she had ever experienced had

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never suggested to her anything more monstrous than the injunction that had dropped from her dying father's lips. Yet there were the words engraved as it were with some acid that burned into her very core, I wish you to marry Mr. Aird.' Presently they began to fade away before the slowly growing perception of what had happened afterwards. He was dead. His voice, his smile, were gone. The kindly gracious man who called her daughter, and whom all the little world she had ever known bowed down to in admiration, was no more. The circumstance of her own desolation did not strike her at first so much as a vague sense of loss. She beheld the general void rather than the empty place beside her. Then came the isolation; the awful sense of her utter loneliness in the world. Not a soul to care for her, not one human being bound to her by tie of blood or nearness. No heart to love her. Here a little hand stole into her own, and a child's voice whispered tenderly in her ear, 'Don't cry, Ella: don't cry, darling. We are so sorry for you. I do love you so. Don't you know me? I'm little Davey.'

Then the tears came for the first time; she threw her arms about the child and hugged

him to her bosom; and hid her face in his, and sobbed with him and he with her, as though their hearts would break together.

CHAPTER XXIX.

A FRIEND IN NEED.

THERE is plenty of kindness in the world-but largely mingled with the fear of incurring responsibility. In our hour of sorrow, that muchdespised class of persons who act on instinct come to the front, and win our hearts while the wise and the prudent are picking their words. The promises of the former may be pie-crust, but their present sympathy is sincere and of incalculable value. They do not give twice but ten times over who give quickly; and even if they have nothing to give, their obvious desire to be of service is a material help.

The touch of little Davey's cheek as it nestled up to Ella's was worth very much to her, though it might not have been favourably

discounted in the City.

When she looked out through her dim eyes at the world again, there was sunshine in it—a streak of light among the menacing masses of cloud.

'Papa told me to say, only I forgot it,' said Davey, that whatever you wished should be done at once. That he was-I don't remember what he said exactly-but I know he loves you almost as much as I do.'

The streak of light vanished away from poor Ella's mental horizon, and a sharp chill, as from a November sky, seized her.

'Tell your father that I am obliged to him,' she answered firmly; but that I want nothing. You should not stop here, darling. It is not fit for you. Go and play.'

Nothing loth, for a child is soon tired of another's sorrow, Davey got off her lap. 'I'll give papa your love,' he said. 'Shall I ?'

Tell him what I told you to say, Davey; that I am obliged to him-deeply obliged to him-but that I want nothing.'

There was a knock at the door; the same door at which the child had doubtless entered,