Oscar smiled a little, and over Sheila’s face there glimmered a flickering smile, as though she were half amused at her own fancies. The firelight played over her face and form as she stood in its rosy glow. She was a little over the average height, and was growing graceful and maidenly, though a year or two back she had been rather a hoyden in appearance, with long limbs and a good many angles, and a mane of wavy brown hair tumbling over her shoulders. Now the long plain black dress, a little open at neck and wrists—for it was close upon dinner-time—seemed to give grace and dignity to the figure, and to heighten the clearness of the girl’s complexion. The plentiful brown hair was coiled about the head. The big grey eyes were arched over by brows of the same dusky tint, and the features of the face were well cut, though not quite regular, and very mobile in their play of expression. It was the constantly varying expression which gave to Sheila’s face its chief charm. It was like an April morning—always changing from gay to grave and from grave to gay. Gaiety certainly predominated in the play of lips and eyes; but there were many stormy or appealing or wistful expressions flitting constantly over the face. Sheila was accustomed to get her own way with everybody about her; and her big appealing eyes were answerable for a good deal of the spoiling she received. Oscar was slight and tall, well-featured and very gentlemanly in appearance, with a quiet, attractive face and a very bright smile, which was, however, much more rare than Sheila’s. They were not much alike; but that seemed only to strengthen the bond between them. “Hark!” cried Oscar quickly. “I hear the carriage!” Sheila turned a little pale, and took a step or two forward. “It is Uncle Tom!” she said; and the next minute the butler had thrown open the door and a figure well wrapped up for the wintry journey was seen entering the hall. Mr. Thomas Cossart had come! (_To be continued._) FROM LONDON TO DAMASCUS. PART IV. GOING ON PILGRIMAGE. “Still onward winds the dreary way; I with it.” “A glorious morning!” was our remark as we met at breakfast on March 28th. “Just the day for a pilgrimage to Mar Saba.” The hour was early, but long before we had risen the shouts of Ameen and a muleteer mingling with the tramp of horses announced the arrival of part of our escort. The Arab is a restless as well as a vociferating person, and cannot comprehend why the average Saxon goes to bed regularly at night, sleeps till morning, and keeps awake all day. For himself, well, the hour of repose and the nature of his couch are matters of perfect indifference. He takes his dog sleep like Sairey Gamp imbibed her spirits—“when so dispoged.”