Very different is the look which this bustling street bears in its every-day occupation from the Sabbath quietness which hushes all its voices. Great carts are constantly passing with ostentatious din and clamour, as if proud of their load--light unburdened ones, flying up and down, with the driver perched on his little movable seat, and the end of the whip floating like a streamer over his horse’s head--while now and then wearied travelling people come slowly down, carrying box and carpet bag, fresh from the tedious journeys of the canal. Violet Muir stands at the door of the little room wherein Mrs. McGarvie lives, and eats, and sells butter, brose-meal, and “speldrens,” lovingly conversing with Tiger, Mrs. McGarvie’s great ferocious, sinister-looking dog. He is by no means prepossessing, this friend of Violet’s, and has a wiry yellow coat, and a head largely developed in the animal parts, and small in the intellectual, with a fiery red truculent eye;--yet, nevertheless, he is Violet’s friend, and the little girl like the fairy Titania, has beauty enough in her own eyes and heart to glorify her friend withal--so Tiger is sufficiently adorned. Shaking hands kindly in passing, and patting the little shy head which drooped under his eye, Cuthbert went up stairs through the always open door to the now familiar parlour. Harry was rapidly recovering; he had been removed from his room for the first time to-day, and now lay on the sofa, while his little wife gaily danced about the crowing baby before him. They made a pretty group, as Agnes leaned over the great arm chair, and little Harry put forth his dimpled hand to stroke his father’s cheek, but there was a little peevishness and impatience in the face which the rosy child’s fingers passed over so lightly. The invalid was slightly querulous this morning. “Just the time of all the year that I enjoy most,” said Harry, “and to be shut up here now! It tries a man’s patience--open the window, Rose.” “Rose got cold last night, when you had the window open,” said Agnes with humility, “and the baby is not well--it may hurt yourself too, Harry.” “Nonsense. Rose can sit somewhere else. Open the window.” “Surely, if you wish it, Harry,” said Rose promptly. The day was bright, but cold, and the wind blew in, with a sudden gust, through the opened window, tossing poor Rose’s hair about her face, and shaking her with a momentary shiver, but saying nothing, she withdrew quietly to a corner and resumed her work. Rose had never ventured all her life to dispute any one of Harry’s caprices.