Gerald had been the mother's favourite of the two children; but that knowledge had not caused Angel one jealous pang. She was too fond of her brother herself to begrudge him the first share of any one's affection; and now when the dear, indulgent mother was no longer there to wait upon him, she faithfully tried to fill her place, and was his willing slave, darning his socks, mending his clothes, helping him with his lessons evenings—in fact, being generally employed either by or for him in one way or another. Angel regarded herself in the light of a failure. Her father, an artist, 'had named her Angelica, after Angelica Kauffmann, and had fondly hoped that she would inherit his talent for painting, and follow in the footsteps of her namesake; he had anticipated that she would be endowed with what he called "the artistic temperament;" but Angel had proved somewhat of a disappointment. She had never evinced the least taste for drawing, whereas she had early taken to a needle and thimble, and had learnt to sew, and assist her mother with her household duties at an age when most children show distinct dislike to such domestic employments; but to "help mother" had been Angel's greatest pleasure. Mrs. Willis had had rather a hard married life. She had married a man of undoubted abilities, but who had unhappily never succeeded in earning a sufficient income to adequately support his wife and children. She had believed in him, however, and had never complained because she had been obliged to work harder than any servant; only, once, Angel remembered, when something had been said about her lacking "the artistic temperament," her mother's face had brightened into a smile, and she had said, "Angel is my right hand. I do not know what I should do without my little daughter. Perhaps it is as well she has not 'the artistic temperament' after all!" Later, when a woman grown, Angel recalled those words, and understood their meaning. But now, as she sat by the fireside, waiting for her brother's return from school, her thoughts turned from her dead mother to her father in his studio at the top of the house, where he was painting the great picture which he believed was to bring him fame and make his fortune, and wished she was not such a disappointment to him. It was indeed sad that she, an artist's daughter, should be denied "the artistic temperament!" "It is not that I don't admire beautiful things," the little girl thought, "because I do. I love flowers, and I should like to live in a pretty house in the country, and—" Her reflections were interrupted by a sharp knock at the door, which subsequently opened to admit the landlady of the house, Mrs. Steer— a portly, middle-aged woman, clad in a purple merino gown, the front width of which was plentifully besprinkled with grease spots.