" ...]very sure from his look." "Aye, child, aye; he was very sure, but he was not meaning what you were meaning. Well, never mind; but what was that you called me just now, Cecile?" "I--I----" said Cecile, hesitating and coloring. "Aye, like enough 'twas a slip of your tongue. But you said, 'Mother'; you said it without the 'step' added on. You don't know --not that it matters now--but you won't never know how that 'stepmother' hardened my heart against you and Maurice, child." "'Twas our father," said Cecile; "he couldn't forget our own mother, and he asked us not to say 'Mother, ' and me...

Brenda and Florence had both finished their school life. No pains had been spared to render them up to date in every particular. They had gone through the usual curriculum of a girl's education. Brenda was a little cleverer than Florence and had perhaps dived deeper into the heart of things, but Florence was the prettier of the two. Now the last day of school was over. The last good-byes had been said. The last teacher had whispered words of affection in Brenda's ear, and the last and most loved school-fellow had kissed Florence on her pretty cheek and had hoped in that vague way which meant...

Eileen, Marjorie, and Letitia Chetwynd were expected home from school. It was a bright day early in April, and Mrs. Chetwynd was seated in her luxurious London drawing-room conversing with her special friend, Mrs. Acheson. Two years ago Mrs. Chetwynd, on the death of her husband, a distinguished Indian officer, had returned to England. She was a fashionable, up-to-date-looking lady now. Her widow's dress was carefully chosen-not too depressing, but all that was correct and proper. Mrs. Acheson, also the widow of an Indian officer, was not fashionable in the ordinary acceptance of the word....

"So," continued Mrs. Meadowsweet, settling herself in a lazy, fat sort of a way in her easy chair, and looking full at her visitor with a complacent smile, "so I called her Beatrice. I thought under the circumstances it was the best name I could give-it seemed to fit all round, you know, and as he had no objection, being very easy-going, poor man, I gave her the name." "Yes?" interrogated Mrs. Bertram, in a softly surprised, and but slightly interested voice; "you called your daughter Beatrice? I don't quite understand your remark about the name fitting all round." Mrs. Meadowsweet raised one...

It was an intensely hot July day-not a cloud appeared in the high blue vault of the sky; the trees, the flowers, the grasses, were all motionless, for not even the gentlest zephyr of a breeze was abroad; the whole world seemed lapped in a sort of drowsy, hot, languorous slumber. Even the flowers bowed their heads a little weariedly, and the birds after a time ceased singing, and got into the coolest and most shady parts of the great forest trees. There they sat and talked to one another of the glorious weather, for they liked the heat, although it made them too lazy to sing. It was an open...

It was a perfect summer's evening. The sun had just set, and purple, gold, violet, rose colour still filled the sky in the west. There was a tender new moon, looking like a silver bow, also to be seen; before long the evening star would be visible. Hester Thornton stepped out of the drawing-room at the Grange, and, walking a little way down the broad gravel sweep, began to listen intently. Hester was about seventeen-a slender girl for her age. Her eyes were dark, her eyebrows somewhat strongly marked, her abundant hair, of a much lighter shade of brown, was coiled in close folds round her...

After all, his story began like any one else's-he came into the world. In a picturesque town in Africa he opened his eyes; and there is no doubt that his mother was as proud of her little black baby as any English mother would be of her child with fair skin. So far, his story was like any other person's story, but there, I think, the likeness came to an end. He was an African boy, and knew nothing of what we English people call civilisation. Mou-Setse first opened his eyes on the world in a clay hut; but this fact by no means denoted that his parents were poor people; on the contrary, his...

" ...] "Sweet or not," said the mother, "she has got to learn her lesson of life; and it is no good to be too tender with her; she wants a little bracing." "You have been trying that on-eh?" "Well, not exactly, Pat; but you cannot expect me to keep all our troubles to ourselves. There's that mortgage, you know." "Bother the mortgage " said the Squire. "Why do you harp on things the way you do? I'll manage it right enough. I am going round to see Dan Murphy now; he won't be hard on an old friend." "Yes; but have you not to pay up?" "Some day, I suppose." "Now listen, Patrick. Do be reasonable....

The London season was at its height. The weather was warm and sultry, the days were at their longest. The shops were gay with beautiful dresses, richly trimmed bonnets, gloves, parasols, hats-the thousand and one pretty articles of usefulness and beauty which are considered indispensable by the people who drive about in carriages and live in the large houses in the West End of London. The time was night, and the more important shops were shut, but the great houses in Grosvenor Square revealed at this moment their fullest and most brilliant life, for this was the time when the great receptions...