management; the young people loved her well, and were willing to submit to her authority. Yet the doctor was conscious that this authority was not quite what it would have been if Mrs. Hurst had been mother instead of aunt; and he could see plainly enough that she had more control over the boys than over Ada.

Why was this? He was bound to acknowledge that the fault, lay in Ada herself. She had never had any dispute with Aunt Emily, but in a hundred little ways she had asserted her own freedom of action. She had never said plainly that she would not be controlled, but she had contrived to convey to Mrs. Hurst that control was distasteful to her.

Mrs. Hurst had admitted to her brother that Ada was bent upon guiding herself. The admission had been made very reluctantly, and was not drawn from Aunt Emily without considerable difficulty. It was plain that the widow felt herself to be placed in a delicate position. She could not deal with Ada as she would have dealt with her own daughter, because the girl tacitly refused to allow her the privilege of a mother.

1

The doctor thought that this plan of teaching in the Ragged School ought to have been quietly talked over in the home circle before the arrangement was made. The plan in itself was excellent, but he was doubtful as to the way in which it would be carried out. Ada's character was full of promises; her sympathies were quick; all her feelings were easily awakened. She was like a tree that is laden with May blossoms-fragile and beautiful blooms, that the lightest puff of wind may carry away.

As the doctor went from one poverty-stricken home to another, and came face to face with all the sad realities of sorrow and sickness, he reflected gravely over his daughter's flowery nature. He wondered, as many an anxious parent has wondered, how she would do "in the swelling of Jordan." She was easily wearied in "the land of "the duties of common life, light as they peace; were, seemed all too heavy for her hands.

He

had few fears for his sons. The elder ones were learning to fight their way in the world, as he had fought his; the younger were being carefully trained and watched. But Ada seemed to have

gone beyond watching and training, and yet she had evident need of both.

It was twenty minutes past five when the doctor came again to his own door. He opened it, as usual, with his latch-key, and before it could be closed, Ada ran hastily out of the sitting-room. Her face was colourless, her hair and dress were disordered.

"Oh, father," she said breathlessly, "a dreadful thing has happened! Lawrence has fallen down from the pear-tree, and he lies moaning upon the sofa. Charlie has gone to find you; Jack is not at home; and Aunt Emily thinks”

Dr. Fenway put his daughter quietly aside. He entered the sitting-room with as firm a tread as if this new patient had been a stranger; but there was an indescribable tenderness in his tone as he bent over the sofa, and asked softly, "Where are you hurt, my boy?"

The lad's white face brightened for a moment. The sound of that voice seemed to give him courage to bear pain bravely.

My leg, father-I think it's broken. It's all my own doing," he answered faintly.

The doctor proceeded to make an examination, and then, with Willie's aid, he lifted Lawrence off the sofa upon the mattress, and the two carried him upstairs with exceeding care and gentleness. He was put into Aunt Emily's room, instead of being conveyed to his own attic. The moving hurt him, tenderly as it was accomplished, but he made very little outcry, and was heard to murmur once or twice that "it served him right."

"Is it very serious, father?" asked Ada eagerly, when the doctor came downstairs.

"The leg is broken in two places," he replied. She burst into tears, and little Ned, the youngest boy, instantly followed her example. The doctor sat down in his accustomed chair with a sigh. He was faint and tired, and just at that moment he felt that the crosses of life are very hard to bear. Nancy, the old servant, entered with the tea-tray, and immediately behind her came a tall, dark lad, with a resolute face.

"I've heard all about it, Ada," he said, as she lifted her face from her handkerchief. "You needn't tell me the whole history of the disaster. I came in at the back door, and I've been up to

Lawrence already. He'll do very well. Why don't you pull yourself together, and give father some tea?"

"I saw him fall," sobbed Ada. "I was walk

ing in the garden, and I heard a creaking in the pear-tree

"Never mind what you saw and heard; father wants some tea. Go and sit down, and I'll pour it out for him myself."

He was as good as his word. Quietly and deftly he performed the office of tea-maker, and supplied the doctor's wants. Meanwhile Ada, having wept herself into composure, took her place at the table. There was a cloud on her brow that was not brought there by Lawrence's mishap. She resented Jack's matter-of-fact manner bitterly.

Ada was one of those women who always demand petting and cosseting, and Jack was one of those men who will never satisfy such demands. He did not think it necessary to condole with her on the shock that her nerves had sustained. Yet he could be tender and considerate in his own. fashion, for he would neither eat nor drink till he had carried Aunt Emily's tea upstairs. She was