rget waking up early one morning and seeing a little white figure
stealthily putting coal on the fire, which was nearly out; taking up the
lumps with its own little cold hands not to make a noise. My good little
Alie!' and she stroked the hand that lay on her arm fondly.

Rosalys smiled up at her. She loved her mother to speak so to her, but
still her heart was sore for Biddy.

'I believe--I _know_ Biddy would be just as loving to you, mamma, if she
knew how,' she said. 'But it is true that she's very provoking. Perhaps
it would be different if she had brothers and sisters younger than
herself--then she'd _have_ to feel herself big and--as if it mattered
what she did.'

'Responsible, you mean,' said Mrs. Vane. 'Yes, that is the best
training. But we can't provide small brothers and sisters ready-made for
Biddy, and I am very well contented with the three I have got! It might
be a good thing if she had some companions nearer her own age, but even
that has its difficulties. Just think of the scrapes she got into that
time I sent her to your aunt's for a fortnight! Why, she was sent home
in disgrace for--what was it for--I forget? Biddy's scrapes are so
many.'

'For taking the two smallest children to bathe in the pond before
breakfast, wasn't it?' said Alie.

'Oh yes--after having half killed their valuable Persian cat by feeding
it with cheese-cakes, or something of the kind,' added Mrs. Vane.

But she could not help smiling a little. Alie had already seen that she
was softening; whenever mamma called Bridget 'Biddy,' she knew it was a
good sign.

'There is one comfort,' said the elder sister, in her motherly way,
'Biddy has a _terribly_ kind heart. She is never naughty out of--out of
_naughtiness_. But oh, mamma, let us wait a minute; the sunset is
beginning.'

And so indeed it was. Over there--far out, over the western sea, the
cold, quiet, winter sea, the sun was growing red as he slowly sank, till
he seemed to kiss the ocean, which glowed, blushing, in return. It was
all red and gray to-night--red and gray only, though there were grandly
splendid sunsets at Seacove sometimes, when every shade and colour which
light can show to our eyes shone out as if a veil were drawn back from
the mysterious glory we may but glimpse at. But the red and gray were
very beautiful in their way, and the unusual stillness, broken only by
the soft monotonous lap, lap, of the wavelets as they rippled themselves
into nothing on th