ow to look at the stars. 'Are they not bright,
Ritchie?' she said; 'and beyond there is the great beautiful heaven,
where my little boy will go some day;' and then she stood rocking me in
her arms. I heard her say plainly, 'Oh, that I and my little child were
there now!' And as she spoke something wet fell on my face. I have heard
since that she was not happy--not as happy as she ought to have been,
poor mother!"

"And is that all you can remember?" asked Bessie gently.

"Oh, no; I have many vague recollections of making daisy chains with my
mother on the lawn; of a great yellow cowslip ball flung to me in the
orchard; of a Sunday afternoon, when some pictures of Samuel, and David
and Goliath, were shown me; and many other little incidents. Children do
remember, whatever grown-up people say."

"I think it would be terrible to lose one's mother, especially when one
is a child," observed Bessie, in a feeling voice.

"I have found it so, I assure you," replied Richard gravely. "My
stepmother was young, and did not understand children--boys especially.
I seemed somewhat in the way to every one but my father. A lonely
childhood is a sad thing; no success nor happiness in after life seems
to make up for it."

"I understand what you mean; father always says children claim happiness
as a right."

"It is most certainly their prerogative; but I fear I am boring you with
my reminiscences."

"Not at all; you are giving me a great pleasure, Mr. Sefton. I do like
knowing about people--their real selves, I mean, not their outside; it
is so much more interesting than any book. I think, as a rule, people
shut themselves up too much, and so they exclude light and sympathy."

"One longs for sympathy sometimes," said Richard; but he turned away his
face as he spoke.

"Yes; every one needs it, and most of us get it," replied Bessie,
feeling very sorry for the young man in her heart. He was too manly and
too generous to complain openly of his stepmother's treatment, but
Bessie understood it all as well as though he had spoken.

"In a large family there is no complaint to be made on this score. When
I have a grievance there is always mother or Hatty, or Christine and
father. We take all our big things to father. Oh, at home, no one is
left out in the cold."

"I think your home must be a happy one, Miss Lambert--but here we are at
The Grange. I must bid you good-bye for the present, for I have an
errand in the village."

But Ri