a dog, and hadn’t got any feelings”, she sometimes said to Fanny, when some service or sacrifice had been accepted without gratitude or respect. It never occurred to Tom, when Maud sat watching him with her face full of wistfulness, that she wanted to be petted as much as ever he did in his neglected boyhood, or that when he called her “Pug” before people, her little feelings were as deeply wounded as his used to be when the boys called him “Carrots”. He was fond of her in his fashion, but he didn’t take the trouble to show it, so Maud worshipped him afar off, afraid to betray the affection that no rebuff could kill or cool.

One snowy Sunday afternoon Tom lay on the sofa in his favourite attitude, reading “Pendennis” for the fourth time, and smoking like a chimney as he did so. Maud stood at the window watching the falling flakes with an anxious countenance, and presently a great sigh broke from her.

“Don’t do that again, chicken, or you’ll blow me away. What’s the matter?” asked Tom, throwing down his book with a yawn that threatened dislocation.

“I’m afraid I can’t go to Polly’s,” answered Maud disconsolately.

“Of course you can’t; it’s snowing hard, and father won’t be home with the carriage till this evening. What are you always cutting off to Polly’s for?”

“I like it; we have such nice times, and Will is there, and we bake little johnny-cakes in the baker before the fire, and they sing, and it is so pleasant.”

“Warbling johnny-cakes must be interesting. Come and tell me all about it.”

“No, you’ll only laugh at me.”

“I give you my word I won’t, if I can help it; but I really am dying of curiosity to know what you do down there. You like to hear secrets, so tell me yours, and I’ll be as dumb as an oyster.”

“It isn’t a secret, and you wouldn’t care for it. Do you want another pillow?” she added, as Tom gave his a thump.

“This will do; but why you women always stick tassels and fringe all over a sofa-cushion, to tease and tickle a fellow, is what I don’t understand.”

“One thing that Polly does Sunday nights is to take Will’s head in her lap, and smooth his forehead. It rests him after studying so hard, she says. If you won’t like the pillow, I could do that for you, ’cause you look as if you were more tired of studying than Will,” said Maud, with some hesitation, but an evident desire to be useful and agreeable.

“Well, I don’t care if you do try it, for I am confoundedly tired.” And Tom laughed, as he recalled the frolic he had been on the night before.

Maud established herself with great satisfaction, and Tom owned that a silk apron was nicer than a fuzzy cushion.

“Do you like it?” she asked, after a few strokes over the hot forehead, which she thought was fevered by intense application to Greek and Latin.

“Not bad; play away,” was the gracious reply, as Tom shut his eyes, and lay so still that Maud was charmed at the success of her attempt. Presently, she said, softly,—

“Tom, are you asleep?”

“Just turning the corner.”