friend.

CHAPTER VI.

THE RIGHT KIND OF PLEADING.

N the late autumn Jane went home, and Ellen cried at parting with her, as if she were losing her dearest

The nurse tried her utmost to induce her to return with her, but Ellen had not the journey money, and was still in debt in Calcutta, though she did not give that as her reason for remaining.

"Miss Ellen," Jane said, “you are just throwing yourself away on the captain. He's your brother, to be sure, but I've your good at heart, just as I had Miss Agnes', and I tell

you you'll never make nothing of him. Haven't I got eyes and ears? and doesn't even that poor nigger, Samuel, know you've been paymaster ever so long, just because Mr. Edward chooses to make a show above his means, eh? but I'd like to give him a hearing afore I go, though, of course, I daren't

he my brother? Who has a better right to what I have than he has ?"

Ah, well-you'll see, miss, Mr. Edward 'll be for marrying again, and then he'll reckon nothing of asking you to go somewhere else. Miss Ellen, you come home with me. I can lend you plenty of money, if you don't happen to have enough by you. You'll never bear to see a stranger taking Miss Agnes' place."

"You must not say this, Jane. Mr. Edward has no intention of marrying again."

"Well, well, Miss Ellen, they do

ent 't' barracks; but let that alone-he doesn't give you so much o' his company as to make him miss you. He's that throng o'

riding and racketting, it must be dowly work for you often. Come home with me, Miss

Ellen."

But Ellen resisted, though the truth of the pleading pressed her sorely, and at last Jane gave up trying to persuade her.

At the last the two women went into the empty, comfortless room which had been Agnes', and wherein the sickly baby had yielded up its innocent spirit. Agnes' boxes were there, and the little empty bed, and Jane broke out into tearful lamentation as she stood beside it.

"It was so patient with all its suffering," she cried; "its few months were so full of pain. It just faded and faded, moaning now and then as if it wondered why it was so

sadly troubled. Miss Ellen, you were lying mortal bad, and I kept t' poor little soul as far out o' your hearing as I could; and Mr. Edward, he said couldn't I keep t' cross little wretch quiet. Ay,' I thought to myself, 'I'd rather be t' cross little wretch than you, sir; for I know who's t' nearest heaven.' It died early i' t' morning after that. I believe Miss Agnes came for it, I do, indeed, for it stopped moaning, and fixed it's eyes, and smiled like a little angel, as it was nearly, and it raised its little waxy hands, and half-lifted itself out of my arms, and then all t' life went out of its face. Miss Ellen, even MacWhuskey's death didn't fret me as that did; it was so helpless, so ailing, so sweetly patient. Mr. Edward, he came and cried over it, and kissed it, when it were too late, and he said it were the very moral of Miss Agnes. And so it was, for when it had been dead an hour

its little sweet face grew exactly like young

mississ's. Eh, I wish you could a' seen t' coffin. I brought it to you, hoping you would be able to notice it, but you took no notice. It had real silver handles, and was lined wi' pink satin. Mr. Edward did his duty by it after all, and must have paid a deal but then it's no trouble to give money when one has it. I'd rather myself have kind words i' my lifetime than silver handles to my coffin."

Wiping her eyes, Jane opened a box, and looked lingeringly at some baby - clothes within.

"Miss Ellen, she said, entreatingly, "these are what I took off when I undressed her for her coffin. See, there's creases in t' little sleeves, and the shape left in t' poor little socks. I wouldn't have 'em touched, but laid 'em in there myself. Miss Ellen, do you think t' master would let me have 'em to take away with me? Old missis would like to see 'em.