"Nothing that has done you much harm," said Alice, smiling — "if I am to guess from your looks. You are as rosy as a good Spitzenberg yourself." "That's very funny," said Ellen, laughing, "for Aunt Fortune said a while ago that my cheeks were just the colour of two mealy potatoes." "But about the apples?" said Alice. "Why, this morning I was thinking I would come here so early, when the first thing I knew, Aunt Fortune brought out all those heaps and heaps of apples into the kitchen, and made me sit down on the floor, and then she gave me a great big needle, and set me to stringing them all together; and as fast as I strung them, she hung them up all round the ceiling. I tried very hard to get through before, but I could not; and I am so tired! I thought I never should get to the bottom of that big basket." "Never mind, love — come to the fire — we'll try and forget all disagreeable things while we are together." "I have forgotten it almost already," said Ellen, as she sat down in Alice's lap, and laid her face against hers; "I don't care for it at all now." But her cheeks were fast fading into the uncomfortable colour Miss Fortune had spoken of; and weariness and weakness kept her for awhile quiet in Alice's arms, overcoming even the pleasure of talking. They sat so till the clock struck half- past five; then Alice proposed they should go into the kitchen, and see Margery, and order the tea made, which she had no doubt Ellen wanted. Margery welcomed her with great cordiality. She liked anybody that Alice liked, but she had besides declared to her husband that Ellen was "an uncommon well-behaved child." She said she would put the tea to draw, and they should have it in a very few minutes. "But, Miss Alice, there's an Irish body, out by, waiting to speak to you. I was just coming in to tell you; will you please to see her now?" "Certainly — let her come in. Is she in the cold, Margery?" "No, Miss Alice — there's a fire there this evening. I'll call her." The woman came up from the lower kitchen at the summons. She was young, rather pretty, and with a pleasant countenance, but unwashed, uncombed, untidy, — no wonder Margery's nicety had shrunk from introducing her into her spotless upper kitchen. The unfailing Irish cloak was drawn about her, the hood brought over her head, and on the head and shoulders the snow lay white, not yet melted away. "Did you wish to speak to me, my friend?" said Alice, pleasantly. "If ye plase, Ma’am, it the master I'm wanting," said the woman, dropping a courtesy. "My father? Margery, will you tell him?" Margery departed. "Come nearer the fire," said Alice, "and sit down; my father will be here presently. It is snowing again, is it not?" "It is, Ma’am — a bitter storm." "Have you come far?"