gazed intently for a moment down Piccadilly, and then turning to me she said, "I thought I had seen my cousin, Robert Harding. It was foolish of me to imagine it," she added, smiling, "for he is at New York. What strange fancies one has sometimes!" "Who is Robert Harding? Your cousin, did you say?" "Yes; the son of James Harding, my uncle." "What sort of man is he?" "I know him very little. I have scarcely spoken to him since we have been both grown up; but he was very fond of me when I was a little girl, and I have always felt a kindness for him." "Were you brought up together?" "Oh, no; when I was about eight years old the scarlet fever was in our house, and I was sent to my uncle's for two or three weeks. Robert was then twelve years old; he was called a very naughty boy, and nobody liked him or said a kind word to him. The first day I came there he asked me to play with him, and I was going to say yes, when my aunt called out, 'Don't play with him, Alice,--don't speak to him; he is in disgrace, and nobody must talk to him.' He scowled dreadfully and walked out of the room. In the evening I was dressing my doll in a room up-stairs, where I was to sleep with Anne Harding, when I heard somebody sobbing in the next room. I went on tip-toe to the door and opened it gently. I saw Robert sitting on a bed and crying bitterly. Anne had told me he never cried, not even when his father beat him; but he was crying now, and I stood looking at him till I began to cry too. At last he got up, and climbing on the bed, he pulled off his handkerchief and tied it to the post. I did not know what he was doing, but he looked so odd and so red in the face, that I felt frightened, and called out 'Robert.' "He turned round and said, 'What are you doing there? Go away, you must not see what I am about to do.' "'It must be something very wrong then,' I said, 'and I hope you won't do it.' "'Why not?' he muttered. 'What's it to you? I'm going to hang myself; but you must not tell, for they'd come and cut me down and punish me very much.' "'Perhaps they would,' I said; 'but not so much as God will punish you if you do such a wicked thing.' "'It isn't wicked,' he answered. 'Nobody loves me or cares about me. They won't let you play with me, and, perhaps, when I've hanged myself, they'll be sorry for it.' "'But I'm sorry for you _now_,' I cried; 'and though I must not play with you while you are naughty, I will play with you and love you very much if you are good.' "'Are you sure you will.' "'Quite sure, Robert.' "'Well, if you do I don't much care who doesn't. But mind if you don't love me I'll hang myself.'