"My dear," she began, "I hope you are not going to fret; it would be so unchristian. I have lost a kind father, an invaluable mother, an affectionate aunt, the dearest of brothers--" The list was interrupted by the door which opened very gently, to admit a lad of eleven or twelve, tall, strong, fair-headed, rather handsome, but looking as rough and rude as a young bear. This was her nephew William. His father had died some six months before bequeathing him to the guardianship of his aunt, who immediately committed him to school for bad behaviour, and to whom his periodical visits, during the holidays, were a source of acute distress. On seeing him enter, Miss Murray turned up her eyes like one prepared for anything, and faintly observed, "William, have you seen Abby?" "Yes," was his sulky reply. "Then let me beseech you," she pathetically rejoined, "to respect my feelings and those of this dear child." He looked at me, but never answered. She continued, "Don't behave like a young savage,--if you can help it," she kindly added. William scowled at his aunt, and thrust his hands into his pockets by way of reply. "You have passed through the same trial," pursued Miss Murray, "and, though I cannot say that your language has always been sufficiently respectful towards the memory of my lamented brother--" "Why did he leave me to petticoat government?" angrily interrupted William; "you don't think I am going to be trodden down by a lot of women. I come in singing, not knowing anything, and Abby calls me a laughing hyena; and I am scarcely in the room before you set me down as a savage! I won't--there!" This must have meant something, for Miss Murray bewailed her unhappy fate, whilst William doggedly sat down by the table, across which he darted surly glances at me. "I do not mean to reproach the memory of my dearest brother," feelingly began Miss Murray, "but really if he had had any consideration for me, and my weak state, he ought to have taken more care of himself, and tried to live longer. William, what do you mean by those atrocious grimaces?" "I wish she wouldn't;" said William, whose features worked in a very extraordinary manner; "I wish she wouldn't." Miss Murray followed the direction of his glance, and looked round to where I sat a little behind her. "I declare the unfortunate child is crying," she exclaimed, in a tone of distress,--"sobbing too! William, ring the bell,--call Abby. My dear, how can you? Oh! Abby, Abby," she added, as the door opened, and Abby entered, "look--is there no way of stopping that?" "Doesn't she cry though?" observed Abby, astonished.