'Oh, please, ma'am, do not speak to her! I am sure that she does not deserve it! she has been a real naughty girl!' On inquiry, it appears that the enemy of man having again entered into Miss Lily, she has cut the string of her necklace, strewed the beads all over the floor, and then told a barefaced lie, and entirely denied it. During this recital of her iniquities she continues her buttoning quite calmly; and merely says, with a dispassionate tone of indifference and acquiescence: 'Yes, I am bad.' It is two hours later--so long does the discussion over the penny reading last--before Margaret again passes the nursery door. The interval has been filled by a discussion as to which of the local talent must be invited to contribute, and which may be, without giving too much offence, left out; but the larger part has been spent in a confederate consultation as to how best to prevent Mrs. Evans from singing 'Love, the Pilgrim.' The matter is arranged at last; and Peggy puts on her hat and gloves again to depart. As she repasses the nursery door she finds that an entire change of decoration has taken place. Instead of the young cynic defiantly buttoning her boots in the teeth of the law, she sees a little pious figure in a white nightgown, kneeling by its nurse's side. The instant, however, that the saintly little form catches sight of her it is up on its bare legs, and rushing towards her. 'Oh, Miss Lambton, do let me say my prayers to you! it would be so pleasant!--No, Franky,' with a disposition to hustle her little brother, who is putting in a like claim; 'you are too little; you can say yours to Nanny!' As she speaks she pulls Peggy by the gown into the room; and, placing her in a chair, kneels down at once--so that there may be no chance of her escaping--beside her, with hands devoutly folded, but a somewhat roving eye. 'Which shall I say?' asks she, with a wriggle of the back and an air of indifference: '"Our Father" or "Gentle Jesus"?' 'Say whichever you please,' replies Margaret gently; 'only attend and make up your mind which.' 'Oh, then,' with another wriggle, 'I will say "Gentle Jesus."' After a pause: 'Do you think that there would be any harm in my praying for John Talbot?' Margaret gives a little jump. It is, then, an hereditary passion! But she answers drily: 'Not the least.' Another pause. The wriggling has ceased. 'Only,' pursues Peggy, quite determined not to supply the form of petition for Talbot's welfare, 'only you must say it out of your own head. I am not going to tell you what to say.' 'Oh, then,' with an air of resolution, 'I had better say, "God bless John Talbot; and I am glad he is here."' She has pronounced this last somewhat eccentrically-worded supplication rather loud, and at the end of it her wandering eye takes in an object which makes her spring from her knees as hastily as she had done before.