ing him draw the snowy cliff, the pine, the deer couched under it, and the half-moon hung above."
"Where are his drawings, Harry? Caroline should see them."
"In his portfolio; but it is padlocked: he has the key."
"Ask him for it when he comes in."
"You should ask him, Shirley; you are shy of him now: you are grown a proud lady to him, I notice that."
"Shirley, you are a real enigma," whispered Caroline in her ear. "What queer discoveries I make day by day now! I, who thought I had your confidence. Inexplicable creature! even this boy reproves you."
"I have forgotten 'Auld Langsyne,' you see, Harry," said Miss Keeldar, answering young Sympson, and not heeding Caroline.
"Wich you never should have done. You don't deserve to be a man's morning star, if you have so short a memory."
"A man's morning star indeed! and by 'a man,' is meant your worshipful self, I suppose? Come, drink your new milk while it is warm."
The young cripple rose and limped towards the fire: he had left his crutch near the mantelpiece.
"My poor lame darling!" murmured Shirley, in her softest voice, aiding him.
"Whether do you like me or Mr. Sam Wynne
