seful life. Her silver hair made a halo
about her head.

"The next is yours," breathed the voice at her side, softly. "Will you
look?"

Marjorie gave a quick start, and her voice quivered sadly as she
cried,--

"Oh, blessed sunbeam, don't force me to see it! Let me go back and try
to be better before I see my likeness. I am afraid now. The outside
prettiness is n't anything, unless one's spirit is lovely too; and I--I
could not look, for I know--I know how hateful mine would be. I have
learned about it now, and it's like a book; if the story the book tells
is not beautiful, the pictures won't be good to see. I have learned
about it now, and I know better than I did. May I--oh, may I try
again?"

She waited in an agony of suspense for the answer; and when it came,
and the voice said gently, "It is your turn next," she cried aloud,--

"Not yet, oh, not yet! Let me wait. Let me try again."

And there she was, with her cheeks all flushed and tear-stained, her
hair in loose, damp curls about her temples, and her frock all rumpled
and crushed in her mother's arms; and her mother was saying,--

"Bad dreams, sweetheart? You have had a fine, long nap; but it is your
turn next, and I have had to wake you. Come, dear! Now we must see if
we cannot get a good likeness of you,--just as you really are."

WHAT HAPPENED TO LIONEL.

It is not to be supposed that such things happen every day. If they
were to happen every day, one would get so familiar with them that they
would not seem at all extraordinary; and if there were no extraordinary
things in the world, how very dull one would be, to be sure! As it
is-- But to go back.

The beggar had stood before the area-gate for a long time, and no one
had paid the slightest attention to him. He was an old man with long
gray hair, and a faded, ragged coat, whose tatters fluttered madly to
and fro every time the wind blew. He was very tall and gaunt, and his
back was bent. On his head was a big slouched hat, whose brim fell
forward over his eyes and almost hid them entirely in its shadow. He
carried a basket upon one arm, and a cane with a crook for a handle
hung upon the other. He seemed very patient, for he was waiting,
unmurmuringly, for some one to come in answer to the ring he had given
the area-bell some fifteen minutes before. No one came, and he
appeared to be considering whether to ring again or go away, when
Lionel skipped nimbly from his cha