deep recess formed by the slanting roof above. Directly underneath it, to catch every ray of light admitted through the latticed panes of dull green glass, was a kind of desk neatly covered with a purple baize. This desk occupied one side of the room. At the other there were hung from the ceiling to the floor, and extending across the whole breadth of the attic, curtains of a pretty blue colour. They were divided at that end nearest to the fireplace and the window, and looped up so as to afford an opening, and through this opening there was seen the pale face of a young girl, whose features, before they were worn so thin by suffering, must have been of exquisite beauty. Yet, if they had lost something in human loveliness, they had gained much in spiritual expression. From that countenance every trace of warm, glowing life had long past away. The skin was as pure, as free from colour, and as glossy as the flower of the lily. Thin as the face was, it bore no impress of pain or even of dejection. Not a line was on it that nature had not marked there. There was even the trace of a dimple about the mouth, which any happy thought would call into full play. This

face was surrounded with spotless white drapery of cap and gown, and reclined on a raised pillow. The hands were free above the coverlet which rested over the figure, only the upper part of which, from the arrangement of the curtains, could be seen. This young girl occupied herself with needlework.

The other inhabitant of the room presented a totally different appearance, though no one could for an instant mistake the relationship of the two. She had a look of perfect health, though a flush of colour came but rarely to her cheeks. Her countenance was round and charmingly dimpled, and her light silky hair, curling naturally, was cropped pretty close all round her head, so as to give the least trouble in dressing it. This made her face look even rounder than

it was. Her blue eyes had that twinkling and quivering motion of the lids which commonly accompanies a disposition naturally mirthful. She was very small, but in figure and limb seemed cast in the roundest and most joyous of nature's moulds. Her skin, like her sister's, was exquisitely fair, but of a warmer hue. She wore a light print gown, small check; the sleeves,

of very

reaching only to the elbow, were there open and hanging. Whether this was to give her greater facility in her occupation, or to display a pair of the sweetest arms in creation, it would be vain to enquire. She sat at the long desk, which was nearly covered with engraved sheets, and with small palettes of colours. Before her were the prime donne of the opera, the beauties of the aristocracy, and a multitude of fancy prints of all descriptions. It was her work to set forth these prints in brilliant hues, sometimes to colour the Derby winner, or represent the Surrey hounds in full cry; and sometimes, if truth must be told, to give the most delicate tints to a pet of the ballet. Over those sheets her steady hand ran rapidly and unerringly. Perhaps it was not the employment she would have chosen if left to her own taste, but of that she never thought. It gained her a decent living, and she was too happy to have found a means of subsistence to care much about the dignity of her task.

Her day's work was just at an end. Several quires of prints were completed, and the money she would receive would be to her and her sister a little fortune. It was Millicent, the sick girl, who kept the purse,

because she had more time for thought, and a better head for accounts. Is it so great a wonder, then, that these girls were merry, and had some sense of the enjoyment of existence? The air that came through the window was cool and fresh, and wafted to them the scent of the little pot of flowers that stood on the sill. A blackbird, having

a look of sedate and solid contentment in his wicker cage, sent forth his mellow notes at intervals, and chattered and fluttered when the sisters laughed or talked, with a perfect conviction that he was one of the family. They dallied with the last hour of evening in pleasant intercourse, and it was Millicent who, in return for her sister's caress, had warbled the fragment of old song quoted above. Let us listen for a moment to their talk

"You are really very provoking, Griselda," the sick girl said; "why cannot you say at once whether you expect him to-night or

no?"

66

Milly, now Milly, dear, be quiet only a few minutes, till I have finished these last sheets with the gamboge, and then we'll laugh and sing till bedtime."

"But I tell you I don't want to laugh or

sing either," said Milly, with a pretty affectation of pettish impatience. "I want to be.

serious, and I say you must tell me what Florian said when he beckoned you out of the room on Sunday."

"You are very inquisitive, but I don't mean to satisfy you; so, go on guessing till I have done, and then, if you give it up, why, then-well, I don't know what then."

Millicent took up her work, which she had dropped for a moment, and, looking slily from the corners of her eyes, said, "Was it any thing about love, child?"

"Guess again!"

"Do I burn ?"

"Not in the least, on my sacred word of honour."

"But you know it is so, dearest.”

"Nonsense, Milly! Florian is too sensible. He knows he has his way to make in the world, like us, my darling;" and, as she said this, a deeper respiration of her breath than usual almost swelled into a sigh.

The sick girl caught it up with deeper emphasis; but at that moment Griselda put her brush in water, and moved away her palette.

"I vow I will not wash that till to-mor