“My father never scolds,” said Dora, with dignity. “Bless me! but that’s the way when there’s but wan child,” said Miss Bethune’s maid: “not always, though,” she added, with a deep sigh that waved aloft her own cap-strings, and caught Dora’s hair like a breeze. The next moment she opened the door and said, putting her head in: “Here’s Miss Dora, mem, to cheer you up a bit: but no’ in the best of spirits hersel’". “Bless me!” repeated Miss Bethune from within: “and what is wrong with her spirits? Come away, Dora, come in.” Both mistress and maid had, as all the house was aware, curious modes of expressing themselves, which were Scotch, though nobody was aware in Bloomsbury how that quality affected the speech--in Miss Bethune’s case at least. The lady was tall and thin, a large framework of a woman which had never filled out. She sat in a large chair near the fire, between which and her, however, a screen was placed. She held up a fan before her face to screen off the lamp, and consequently her countenance was in full shadow. She beckoned to the girl with her hand, and pointed to a seat beside her. “So you are in low spirits, Dora? Well, I’m not very bright myself. Come and let us mingle our tears.” “You are laughing at me, Miss Bethune. You think I have no right to feel anything.” “On the contrary, my dear. I think at your age there are many things that a girl feels--too much; and though they’re generally nonsense, they’re just as disagreeable as if they were the best of sense. Papa a little cross?” “Why should you all think anything so preposterous? My father is never cross,” cried Dora, with tears of indignation in her eyes. “The better for him, my dear, much the better for him,” said Miss Bethune; “but, perhaps, rather the worse for you. That’s not my case, for I am just full of irritability now and then, and ready to quarrel with the tables and chairs. Well, you are cross yourself, which is much worse. And yet I hear you had one of your grand boxes to-day, all full of bonnie-dies. What a lucky little girl you are to get presents like that!” “I am not a little girl, Miss Bethune.” “No, I’ll allow you’re a very big one for your age. Come, Dora, tell me what was in the box this time. It will do you good.” Dora hesitated a little to preserve her dignity, and then she said almost with awe: “There was a dress in it". “A dress!” cried Miss Bethune, with a little shriek of surprise; “and does it fit you?” “It’s just a very, very little bit too short,” said Dora, with pride, “and just a very, very little bit too wide at the waist.” “Run and bring it, and let me see it,” cried the lady. “I’ve no doubt in the world it fits like a glove. Gilchrist, come in, come in, and see what the bairn’s got. A frock that fits her like a glove.”