to hear. This naturally aroused her attention at once. She
listened to the child's description with growing eagerness, all the more
because the doctor opposed. "Now that will do, Miss Connie," he said; "it
is one of the old Miss Murchisons, who are always so fond of finding out
about their neighbors. I have no doubt at all on that subject. She wants
to find you out in your pet naughtiness, whatever it is, and tell me."

"I am sure it is not for that," cried Connie. "Oh, how can you be so
disagreeable? I know she is not a lady who would tell. Besides, she
is not thinking at all about me. She was either looking for something she
had lost, or,--oh, I don't know what it was!--and when she saw me she
just smiled. She is not dressed like any of the people here. She had got
no cloak on, or bonnet, or anything that is common, but a beautiful white
shawl and a long dress, and it gives a little sweep when she walks,--oh
no! not like your rustling, mamma; but all soft, like water,--and it
looks like lace upon her head, tied here," said Connie, putting her
hands to her chin, "in such a pretty, large, soft knot." Mary had
gradually risen as this description went on, starting a little at first,
looking up, getting upon her feet. The color went altogether out of her
face,--her eyes grew to twice their natural size. The doctor put out his
hand without looking at her, and laid it on her arm with a strong,
emphatic pressure. "Just like some one you have seen a picture of," he
said.

"Oh no. I never saw a picture that was so pretty," said the child.

"Doctor, why do you ask her any more? don't you see, don't you see, the
child has seen--"

"Miss Mary, for God's sake, hold your tongue; it is folly, you know. Now,
my little girl, tell me. I know this old lady is the very image of that
pretty old lady with the toys for good children, who was in the last
Christmas number?"

"Oh!" said Connie, pausing a little. "Yes, I remember; it was a very
pretty picture,--mamma put it up in the nursery. No, she is not like
that, not at all, much prettier; and then _my_ lady is sorry about
something,--except when she smiles at me. She has her hair put up like
this, and this," the child went on, twisting her own bright locks.

"Doctor, I can't bear any more."

"My dear, you are mistaken, it is all a delusion. She has seen a picture.
I think now, Mrs. Turner, that my little patient had better run away and
play. Take a good run through the woods, Miss