"I'm so glad to see you've brought your little girl with you, Mrs. Grey," said a soft musical voice. "How do you do? It's rather chilly, isn't it? At least, I find it so." Mavis looked at the speaker with an interest she did not strive to conceal. Miss Dawson lay on a sofa, but she certainly did not appear ill to an inexperienced observer, for there was a beautiful flush in her cheeks, and her blue eyes were extremely brilliant. Mrs. Grey would not permit her to rise, but drew a chair near to her sofa, and, having duly introduced Mavis to her, questioned her concerning her health. "Oh, I don't believe I'm half so bad as the doctors try to make out," the young girl declared, "and I wouldn't consent to go to Australia but for father. He was so unhappy when, at first, I refused to go. And you, you poor little thing," she proceeded, turning her attention to Mavis, "you greatly dislike the idea of parting from your mother, do you not?" "Yes," Mavis was obliged to admit. "How you must hate me, because I'm going to be the cause of your separation! But, since the doctors are bent on exiling me from England, I'm glad your mother is going with me, because—Oh, come in!" she cried, as there was a tap at the door. It was the servant who had shown Mavis and her mother upstairs, come to say that Mr. Dawson had returned, and would like to see Mrs. Grey. "There, now everything will be settled," Miss Dawson remarked, as Mrs. Grey left the room. "I consider you and I are companions in misfortune, in one way, for you are to be separated from your mother and I from my father. It's a great nuisance my lungs are so delicate." "I am very sorry," Mavis said gently. "But I won't believe that I am very bad; sometimes I don't feel ill at all. Where are you going to live whilst your mother is away?" Mavis told her, adding that she did not know her aunt and cousins, and that she would miss her mother dreadfully. Her brown eyes filled with tears as she spoke. "Poor little thing!" murmured Miss Dawson, in a tone of such deep sympathy, that the tears overflowed and ran down her companion's cheeks. "I have no doubt you begrudge your mother to me," she continued, after a brief pause, "but please do try not to. I really am ill, you know, though I like to pretend I'm not sometimes, and—by the way, you have not told me your name?" "It is Mavis." "Mavis?" "Yes. My father chose it for me. A mavis is a thrush—a bird which sings." "And do you sing?" Miss Dawson inquired, with a smile. "Yes," Mavis replied, drying her eyes and smiling too. "I used to sing when I was quite a little girl." Miss Dawson laughed; but the laugh brought on a fit of coughing which lasted several minutes. When it had passed, she seemed quite exhausted, and lay back on the sofa with her eyes shut, panting. Mavis was rather frightened, and wished her mother would return, but presently Miss Dawson opened her eyes and smiled at her, remarking apologetically—