ays
she has got a bone in her leg, and cannot go.'

'Do you think mamma would give you leave to go up with me? Should you
like it?'

She coloured all over; too happy even to thank him.

'Then,' said Guy to his tutor, 'I will meet you here when you have done
your business in the town, in an hour or so. Poor little thing, she has
not many pleasures.'

Mrs. Dixon made no difficulty, and was so profuse in thanks that Guy got
out of her way as fast as he could, and was soon on the soft thymy grass
of the hill-side, the little girl frisking about him in great delight,
playing with Bustle, and chattering merrily.

Little Marianne was a delicate child, and her frolic did not last long.
As the ascent became steeper, her breath grew shorter, and she toiled on
in a resolute uncomplaining manner after his long, vigorous steps, till
he looked round, and seeing her panting far behind, turned to help her,
lead her, and carry her, till the top was achieved, and the little girl
stood on the topmost stone, gazing round at the broad sunny landscape,
with the soft green meadows, the harvest fields, the woods in their
gorgeous autumn raiment, and the moorland on the other side, with its
other peaks and cairns, brown with withered bracken, and shadowed in
moving patches by the floating clouds. The exhilarating wind brought a
colour into her pale cheeks, and her flossy curls were blowing over her
face.

He watched her in silence, pleased and curious to observe how beautiful
a scene struck the childish eye of the little Londoner. The first thing
she said, after three or four minutes' contemplation--a long time for
such a child--was, 'Oh! I never saw anything so pretty!' then presently
after, 'Oh! I wish little brother Felix was here!'

'This is a pleasant place to think about your little brother,' said Guy,
kindly; and she looked up in his face, and exclaimed, 'Oh! do you know
about Felix?'

'You shall tell me' said Guy. 'Here, sit on my knee, and rest after your
scramble.'

'Mamma never lets me talk of Felix, because it makes her cry,' said
Marianne; but I wish it sometimes.'

Her little heart was soon open. It appeared that Felix was the last who
had died, the nearest in age to Marianne, and her favourite playfellow.
She told of some of their sports in their London home, speaking of them
with eagerness and fondness that showed what joys they had been, though
to Guy they seemed but the very proof of dreariness and dinginess. She