"Oh, was she?" says the vicar, anxiously. "She is changed a little, I think. To me she is rather terrifying. Now, for instance, this morning at breakfast, she asked me, before the children, 'if I didn't find writing sermons a bore.' And when I said--as I was in duty bound to say, my dear Clarissa--that I did not, she laughed out quite merrily, and said she 'didn't believe me'! Need I say the children were in raptures? but I could have borne that, only, when Mrs. Redmond forsook me and actually laughed too, I felt the end of all things was come. Clarissa," (severely), "I do hope I don't see you laughing, too." "Oh, no!--not--not much," says Miss Peyton, who is plainly enjoying the situation to its utmost. "It is very hard on you, of course." "Well, it is," says the vicar, with his broad and rather handsome smile, that works such miracles in the parish and among the mining people, who look upon him as their own special property. "It is difficult for a man to hope to govern his own household when his nearest and dearest turn him into open ridicule. Your little friend is a witch. What shall we do with her?" "Submit to her," says Clarissa. "Where is she? I want to see her." "Cissy will find her for you. I dare say they are together, unless your 'Madam Quicksilver,' as I call her, has taken to herself wings and flown away." He turns, as though to go with her. "No, no," says Clarissa; "I shall easily find her by myself. Go, and do what you meant to do before I stopped you." Moving away from him, she enters the hall, and seeing a servant, is conducted by her to a small room literally strewn with work of all kinds. Books, too, lie here in profusion, and many pens, and numerous bottles of ink, and a patriarchal sofa that never saw better days than it sees now, when all the children prance over it, and love it, and make much of it, as being their very own. On this ancient, friend a tiny fairy-like girl is sitting, smiling sweetly at Cissy Redmond, who is chattering to her gayly and is plainly enchanted at having some one of her own age to converse with. The fairy is very lovely, with red-gold hair, and large luminous blue eyes, soft and dark, that can express all emotions, from deepest love to bitterest scorn. Her nose is pure Greek; her lips are tender and mobile; her skin is neither white nor brown, but clear and warm, and somewhat destitute of color. Her small head is covered with masses of wavy, luxuriant, disobedient hair, that shines in the light like threads of living gold. She is barely five feet in height, but is exquisitely moulded. Her hands and feet are a study, her pretty rounded waist a happy dream. She starts from the sofa to a standing position as Clarissa enters, and, with a low, intense little cry, that seems to come direct from her heart, runs to her and lays her arms gently round her neck.