It was a perfect winter afternoon. The sun was sinking rosily in the western sky, and the keen, frosty air was most invigorating. Mavis had enjoyed the day; but she sighed, and her pretty face grow grave as she thought of those to whom frost meant only added misery, and she felt glad that there were no extremely poor people in W—. "I don't suppose there's any one in the place who hasn't enough to eat," she reflected. "For I heard uncle say last night that the villagers were very well looked after; they get coal-tickets, and they belong to blanket clubs, and they have good homes." She had reached the village by this time, and was passing the post-office when the Vicar came out, followed by his dog. A smile lit up Mr. Moseley's kindly countenance as his eyes fell on the little girl. "All alone?" he said. "How is that?" "I got so very cold on the ice that I thought I'd go home," Mavis explained, as she patted Max. "I only began to learn to skate to-day, and I grew very tired." "Naturally. You are warmer now?" "Oh yes, thank you. I have been walking fast. Max is very pleased to see me, isn't he?" "Very. He counts you as a friend, there is no doubt about that. I am glad to hear you have had good news of your mother. I saw your uncle a few days ago, and he mentioned that Mrs. Grey had arrived at Sydney safely." "Oh yes. I shall be having a letter from her from Sydney before Christmas, I expect. Did uncle tell you that Miss Dawson is better, Mr. Moseley?" "Miss Dawson is the young lady your mother is nursing, I suppose? No, your uncle did not tell me that; but I am very glad." "She is such a pretty young lady, and so rich; but she is very delicate, though you wouldn't think it to look at her. I never saw her but once, and then she was very kind to me. She gave me a beautiful gold locket and chain for a keepsake. I had nothing of the kind before, and we got quite friendly, though we were only together for a little while. Isn't it odd how quickly one gets friendly with some people?" He smiled and assented. They were walking in the direction of the vicarage, which Mavis had to pass on her way home. "I think it's very strange," the little girl continued, knitting her brows thoughtfully. "Now, Rose and I are great friends, and, on the whole, I get on well with Bob, and I'm very fond of Uncle John; but, do you know—" she dropped her voice confidentially as she spoke—"I never can quite like Aunt Lizzie. I do hope it isn't very wrong of me." "Why can't you like her?" the Vicar asked, looking surprised. "I don't know," Mavis admitted, shaking her head. "She's kind to you, I'm sure." "Oh yes, yes!" The little girl grew red, and hesitated. "Please, Mr. Moseley, what is it to be superficial?" she asked, by-and-by. "Is it something one ought not to be?" "To be superficial is to be all on the surface—shallow," he replied. "But why do you ask that?"