Cliff," by Miss Thackeray. Bessie had read few
novels in her life; Dr. Lambert disliked circulating libraries for young
people, and the only novels in the house were Sir Walter Scott's and
Miss Austin's, while the girls' private book shelves boasted most of
Miss Yonge's, and two or three of Miss Mulock's works. Bessie had read
"Elizabeth," by Miss Thackeray, at her Aunt Charlotte's house, and the
charming style, the pure diction, the picturesque descriptions, and the
beauty and pathos of the story made her long to read another by the same
author. As Bessie retraced her steps through the hall Mac raised himself
up slowly, and followed her out, and in another moment Spot and Tim flew
through a side door and joined her.

Bessie never passed a pleasanter morning; her tale enthralled her, but
she laid down her book occasionally to notice her dumb companions. A
white Persian kitten had joined the group; she was evidently accustomed
to the dogs, for she let Tim roll her over in his rough play, and only
boxed his ears in return, now and then. When he got too excited, she
scrambled up a may-tree, and sat licking herself in placid triumph,
while the terriers barked below. Bessie was almost sorry when the quiet
was invaded by Edna. Edna, who never opened a book, by her own
confession, unless it were an exciting novel, looked a little
disdainfully at the book Bessie had chosen.

"Oh, that old thing!" she said contemptuously; "that is not much of a
story; it is about a Breton peasant, is it not? Reine, I think she was
called. Oh, it was amusing enough, but I prefer something more
thrilling."

"I think it lovely," returned Bessie. "It is all so sweet and sunshiny;
one can smell the flowers in that studio, and the two Catherines, one so
happy and charming, and the other so pathetic. All the people are so
nice and good, they seem alive somehow. In other books there are wicked
people, and that troubles me."

"You would not like the sort of books I read;" returned Edna, shrugging
her shoulders. "There was a murder in the last; I could hardly sleep
after it--some one thrown out of a train. Oh, it was deliciously
horrible! I have not sent it back to Mudie; you can read it if you
like."

"No, thank you," returned Bessie quietly; "it would not suit me at all.
Father is very particular about what we read, and mother, too; he will
not let us touch what he calls 'the sensational literature of the
day'--oh, you may laugh," as Edna looked