you up-stairs for a little while."

Graeme rose and laid her hand on his arm, and went up-stairs in a dream.
It was all so like what had been before--the lights, and the music, and
the hum of voices, and the sick pain at her heart; only the pain was now
for Rose, and so much worse to bear. Still in a dream, she went from
picture to picture, listening and replying to she knew not what; and she
sat down, with her eyes fixed on one beautiful, sad face, and prayed
with all her heart, for it was Rosie's face that looked down at her from
the canvas; it was Rosie's sorrow that she saw in those sweet, appealing
eyes.

"Anything but this great sorrow," she was saying in her heart,
forgetting all else in the agony of her entreaty; and her companion,
seeing her so moved, went softly away. Not very far, however. At the
first sound of approaching footsteps he was at her side again.

"That is a very sad picture, I think," she said, coming back with an
effort to the present. "I have seen it once before."

Charlie did not look at the picture, but at her changing face. An
impulse of sympathy, of admiration, of respect moved him. Scarce
knowing what he did, he took her hand, and, before he placed it within
his arm, he raised it to his lips.

"Miss Elliott," murmured he, "_you_ will never take your friendship from
me, whatever may happen?"

She was too startled to answer for a moment, and then they were in the
crowd again. What was he thinking of! Of Allan and the past, or of
Rose and Amy and the future? A momentary indignation moved her, but she
did not speak, and then little Amy was looking up in her face, rather
anxiously and wistfully, Graeme thought.

"You are not going away, Miss Elliott, are you?" said she.

"I am very tired," said Graeme. "Oh! here is my brother. I am very
sorry to take you away, Harry, but if you don't mind much, I should like
to go home. Will you make my adieux to your mother, Miss Roxbury?--No,
please do not come up-stairs. I would much rather you did not.
Good-night."

"You might at least have been civil to the little thing," growled Harry,
as she took his arm when they reached the street. Graeme laughed.

"Civil!" she repeated and laughed again, a little bitterly. "Oh!
Harry, dear! there are so many things that you cannot be supposed to
know. But, indeed, I did not mean to be uncivil to the child."

"Then you were uncivil without meaning it," said Harry, sharply.

Graeme was sile