tea-cup, and a sarcastic intimation at the close of the meal, that "tea was the greatest slop and most womanish stuff _he_ had ever tasted." "Milk and water is decidedly more wholesome for children," mischievously said Kate. William turned scarlet, stabbed her with a look, rose and left the room, slamming the door after him. Miss Murray produced her handkerchief, and looked pitiful. "I appeal to you, Ma'am, is not mine a dreadful, a lamentable case! That boy, Ma'am, is the misery of my life; twice he has run away, and has had to be pursued and caught; each time offering the most desperate resistance." "He is but a boy," good-humouredly observed Kate, "he will grow out of all this." Miss Murray however, for a reason very different from that of Rachel, would not be comforted, and lamented the length of the holidays. Kate herself changed her opinion when she discovered on the following morning the manner in which the shoes of William had used her light grey silk. She called him a little wretch; and, in her indignation, wondered what could tempt his aunt to have him pursued and brought back, when by absconding he had offered her so easy a method of getting rid of him altogether. I almost concurred in this opinion, and altogether looked upon William as a sort of young Christian savage. So far as I could see, the gracious youth did not trouble his aunt much with his company. I seldom or ever went down to the sands without meeting him with his dog 'Dash,' a shaggy-coated creature, as rough-looking as his master, who went whistling past me with superb indifference. I had met them thus one day, the youth climbing the cliffs, and the dog bounding on before him, and now and then turning round to utter a short joyous bark at his master, when, on returning homewards, I saw them again under altered circumstances. William sat on a rock at the base of the cliff, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, and at his feet Dash lay dead. He had fallen from above, and been killed at once; his young master looked at him silently, and, as I approached, dashed away a furtive tear. I stood, unwilling to go on without having expressed sympathy or attempted consolation, and not knowing how to do either, I knelt on the sands and, caressing the poor dead dog, I hesitatingly observed-- "He was a very good dog, was he not?" "There never was a better," replied William in a subdued voice. "He seemed very clever." "I could make him do anything. He'd dash in the roughest sea at a look, and if I only said 'Dash!' he'd look into my face, prick his ears, and be ready to fly off. Poor old Dash! he'll never do the bidding of his master again." And he stooped over him to hide his tears. "Was he old?" I asked.