promised to attend. Suppose I call for you and Olga about nine?"

"Quite agreeable to all parties. I shall expect you. Good-morning."

When Regina left the sitting-room she followed the housemaid up two
flights of steps, and into a small but beautifully furnished
apartment, where a fire was not really necessary, as the house was
heated by a furnace, still the absence of the cheerful red light she
had left below made this room seem chill and uninviting.

The trunks had been brought up, and after lowering the curtain of
the window that looked down on the beautiful Avenue, Hattie said:

"Will you have tea, coffee, or chocolate?"

"Neither, I thank you."

"Have you had any breakfast?"

"I do not want any."

"It is no trouble, miss, to get what you like."

Regina only shook her head, and proceeded to take off her hat and
wrappings.

"Are you an orphan?" queried Hattie, her heart warming toward a
stranger who avoided giving trouble.

"No; but my mother is in----is too far for me to go to her."

"Then you aren't here on charity?"

"Charity! No, indeed! Mr. Palma is my guardian until I go to my
mother."

"Well, miss, try to be contented. Miss Olga has a kinder heart than
her mother, and though she has a bitter tongue and rough ways she
will befriend you. Don't fret about your dog, we folks belowstairs
will see that he does not suffer. We will help you take care of him."

"Thank you, Hattie. I shall be grateful to all who are kind to him.
Please give him some water and a piece of bread when you go down."

It was a great relief to find herself once more alone, and, sinking
down wearily into a rocking chair, she hid her face in her hands.

Her heart was heavy, her head ached; her soul rose in rebellion
against the cold selfishness and discourtesy that had characterized
her reception by the inmates of her guardian's house.

Everything around her betokened wealth, taste, elegance; the carpets
and various articles of furniture were of the most costly materials,
but at the thought of living here she shuddered. Fine and fashionable
in all its appointments, but chilly, empty, surface gilded, she felt
that she would stifle in this mansion.

By comparison, how dear and sacred seemed the old life at the
parsonage I how desolate and dreary the present! how inexpressibly
lonely and hopeless the future!

From the thought of Mr. Palma's return, she could borrow no pleasant
auguries, rather additional gloom and apprehe