to eat
first--something nice,--Miss Chapman?"--(Whispering close), "We can
live in clover now,--a phrase which means" (aloud to the landlady, who
crossed the landing-place above) "grilled chicken and mushrooms for
supper, ma'am! Why don't you smile, Sopby? Oh, darling, you are ill!"

"No, no, Grandy, dear; only tired: let me go to bed. I shall be better
to-morrow; I shall indeed!"

Waife looked fondly into her face, but his spirits were too much
exhilarated to allow him to notice the unusual flush upon her cheek,
except with admiration of the increased beauty which the heightened
colour gave to her soft features.

"Well," said he, "you are a pretty child!--a very pretty child, and you
act wonderfully. You would make a fortune on the stage; but--"

SOPHY (eagerly).--"But--no, no, never!--not the stage!"

WAIFE.--"I don't wish you to go on the stage, as you know. A private
exhibition--like the one to-night, for instance--has" (thrusting his
hand into his pocket) "much to recommend it."

SOPHY (with a sigh).--"Thank Heaven! that is over now; and you'll not be
in want of money for a long, long time! Dear Sir Isaac!"

She began caressing Sir Isaac, who received her attentions with solemn
pleasure. They were now in Sophy's room; and Waife, after again pressing
the child in vain to take some refreshment, bestowed on her his kiss and
blessing, and whistled "_Malbrook s'en va-t-en guerre_" to Sir Isaac,
who, considering that melody an invitation to supper, licked his lips,
and stalked forth, rejoicing, but decorous.

Left alone, the child breathed long and hard, pressing her hands to her
bosom, and sank wearily on the foot of the bed. There were no shutters
to the window, and the moonlight came in gently, stealing across that
part of the wall and floor which the ray of the candle left in shade.
The girl raised her eyes slowly towards the window,--towards the glimpse
of the blue sky, and the slanting lustre of the moon. There is a certain
epoch in our childhood, when what is called the romance of sentiment
first makes itself vaguely felt. And ever with the dawn of that
sentiment the moon and the stars take a strange and haunting
fascination. Few persons in middle life-even though they be genuine
poets--feel the peculiar spell in the severe stillness and mournful
splendour of starry skies which impresses most of us, even though no
poets at all, in that mystic age when Childhood nearly touches upon
Youth, and turns an unq