A mile or so beyond the cottage the lane crossed a stream by a low stone bridge. It was a cheerless spot in the dusk of evening, for the water ran dark and stealthily between old grey willow-trees, but here it was that he found her, by herself and leaning over the low stone parapet. He went straight up to her and said “Good evening,” before he noticed that she was crying quietly, as those people do whose tears are frequent. Putting his hand over hers as it lay on the wall he asked her what was amiss. For one second she looked up in his face, and he made sure that he would learn her secret. The next instant a look of terror passed over her, and she snatched her hand away. Before he could say a word or recover from his surprise she was gone. He saw the white flutter of her pinafore as she ran homewards down the murky lane, and he never saw her again. By the next evening the house was unoccupied once more, and he had nothing but the memory of a child’s pathos which could never be explained. * * * * * [Sidenote: A Slighted Child.] There is just one other bit of pathos which crops up now and again in children’s lives. It happens sometimes that their devotion to someone who has shown them kindness or taken notice of them is accidentally overlooked, and the consequent feeling of desertion is most pathetic. Girls are more liable to this experience than boys, and when it is borne in upon a small child for the first time that she is less attractive than her fellows and must in consequence expect to receive less notice even from those upon whom she has poured out her chief store of affection, the suffering entailed is frequently acute. In selecting a teacher or companion for children it would be no bad plan to observe those who on an occasion when many little ones are gathered together take notice of the ugly children. They are the true child-lovers. An example of the kind of pathos referred to came to the notice of the writer some years ago at a children’s party, and he set down the sensations of the little girl in question in some lines which she is supposed to speak. “MY BISSOP.” I went to the Bissop’s party In my vi’let velveteen: The others went last year, you know, But I hadn’t never been. I was only four; and mother said It was really _much_ too late! But now I’m five—though all a year Was a _’mendous_ time to wait! I knew the Bissop very well, For didn’t I sit on his knee When he came for Confummation, And stopped at our house for tea? He’s a dear old man—our Bissop— And he’ll hardly ever miss Stroking the hair of a little girl And giving her a kiss. So I _did_ look forward to going, (And I whispered it all to my doll)— Though Tom said he didn’t see the good Of taking a mealy-faced Moll. But I didn’t know I was ugly, And nothing about being shy, So I couldn’t sit still with ’citement All the whole way in the fly!