upon his fair young brow that seemed to isolate him even among the crowd. He stood by the side and a little behind Sophie’s chair, and except when he stooped to catch an occasional word from her, he stood unmoved and almost unobservant in the room. Once his eyes were raised, and their sad gaze chanced to meet the wild eyes of the little girl fixed with interest on his face. He bent down, and pointing to Hagar spoke to Sophie. Sophie’s glance followed the indication of his finger, then raising her countenance to his she answered him. He immediately separated himself from the party, passed into the supper room, and returning, walked up to the child, spread her handkerchief over her lap, poured into it a plateful of cakes and sweetmeats, and took a seat by her side. “Did Sophie send me these?” inquired the child. “No.” “Why did you bring them, then?” “You looked lonesome, and dull, and I thought it would amuse you.” “Ah! I thought Sophie did not send them—she never thinks of me now.” “Why do you say that?” “Because it is true; she used to keep me always by her side, or on her lap; now for two or three days she has left me here with Mrs. May, and now that she has come, she scarcely speaks to me!” exclaimed the child, and her black eyes flashed under her sharp brows, and her white teeth gleamed under her upturned lip as she spoke. A soft smile hovered an instant around the beautiful lips and under the golden eye-lashes of the youth, as he said— “You look so like a little playful, spiteful, black kitten, that I am almost afraid of your teeth and claws—however—” and stooping down he daintily lifted the child and set her on his lap. Then he said, “I think you are a jealous little girl.” “I don’t know what ‘jealous’ is, but I don’t like to be robbed of what is mine.” “You are selfish, I am afraid, little one—who has robbed you?” “Mr. Withers has got Sophie, and now he may have her, for I don’t care.” “You are a proud little lady.” He caressed her straight black hair, adjusted her somewhat disordered dress, and began to crack nuts for her, but her eyes were fixed upon the group at the opposite end of the room, and suddenly she said— “I wish Mr. Withers was dead—I do so!” “Oh! horror!” said the young man, now really shocked. “Revengeful, too, Hagar! Mr. Withers is my father.” “Is he? I did not know that—I am so sorry—but, oh! he has taken Sophie away from me, and now I am _so_ lonesome,” and the child burst out crying. “And where have you been, my pretty lad, Where have you been all day?” sang little Miss Rogers, dancing up to them—“Come, Raymond! or I beg your pardon—_Mr._ Raymond Withers—for you hobble-de-hoys are awful punctilious about your dignity—are you going to stay here nursing that spoiled brat all night? We are forming a round game at forfeits in the other room, and we want you.” “Don’t go,” whispered the child.