yet

wool, can we not? We must not feel wearied of our work until we have woven about a couple of yards (I do not mean to suggest that this is made in one day, that would be too much of a good thing). My mat, a round one, measures five inches across; it is by no means a large one, you see, it has taken two and a quarter yards to cover it. Be careful how you fasten off your work; it will run away and disappear into a tangle of wool if you rashly pull out the pins and expect the loops to tighten themselves; they won't do that, I warn you, but will need the end of wool drawn through them and fastened off. Now cut a round of stiff cardboard, find a strong sturdy needle willing to do hard work, and thread it with black cotton. Fasten one end of the worm on the centre of the cardboard and then wind the continuation of it round and round flat on the cardboard, each circle close to the other, securing it as you go by a stitch here and there a very long stitch at the back of the cardboard, and a very short stitch through the wool.

The edge of the mat looks blunt: we will put a fringe of wool round it. Cut some dozens of short pieces fully two inches long. The most expeditious way is to wind a quantity of wool over a card which measures an inch across; when winding, take care not to stretch the wool, or you will find the pieces much shorter than you bargained for when the card is taken away. Cut through the wool in one place only, and now you have a number of pieces all the same length; each of these is fixed separately round the edge. Get a bone crochet-hook, push it through the edge of the mat, and let it bring back a piece of wool doubled in the middle, put the two ends through the loop and pull it tight; then send the hook again through the edge, close by where it went last time, pull a double piece through, pass the ends through the loop, and pull it tight; and in this way go merrily round the mat until you arrive at the point at which you started. Another way of ornamenting the edge of these mats is to make extra tubing, plait three lengths of it loosely, and stitch the plait here and there on the outside rim of the mat.

Now cut a round of dark-coloured cashmere or woollen material of some description a little larger than the mat, turn the edges neatly in all round, place it over the back of the mat, and sew it to the edge with very small stitches.

I hope your mat looks as pretty as mine, and I also hope that you have what I have a little round white china tub standing on it, full of purple and white heather, and blue-bells, with a large-eyed daisy here and there. E. C.

CHAPTER XIX.-EVA COMES DOWN THE LADDER.

ND then Jack and Eva had remained several minutes before the fire without speaking.

Truth to tell, Jack felt as if he didn't know in the least what to say. He did not understand Eva.

His mother, too, had, unfortunately, left the room. If he said anything that Eva did

not like, he knew she would get into a passion and be disagreeable; and if he didn't speak she might wonder also.

So he fidgeted with the hole in the carpet, by way of making it worse it seemed. And Eva fidgeted with it also. And then Eva spoke

"I want you to do something for me very much." Jack said, "What is it?"-he couldn't, of course, say anything else-and then went on fidgeting.

"I want you to go down to Clifford, then; and soon, Jack. Directly."

"Directly, Eva? I can't, then." "You might, then."

"But why?-what to do?" he asked.

"Why, to make yourself useful, to be sure." And Eva, now that she had found the use of her tongue, began once more to speak in her old pert way. Besides, she had always found that way of speaking answer best with everybody.

" I can't build up the house again, at any rate," and Jack spoke stoutly.

"No, you stupid boy! I didn't suppose you

could."

"Then, what do you want me to do there?"

"I want you to set off for Clifford this very minute, and bring Edwin-and Wilton too, I suppose. I suppose he must come, but it's very tiresome-back here."

"What! You want Edwin-you want them both-brought back here, to Mistletoe Grove? There's no room for them, not a bit," was the reply.

"Then mother-here she is will make it; I know she will. She's very, very clever; " and Eva was now taking refuge in her old coaxing manner. "But that's nonsense. She isn't quite clever enough to make the house bigger," broke in Jack. Eva was suddenly about to say something, then as suddenly changed her tone also.

"If you'll only do this for me this once, dear Jack," and she clasped her hands together plead. ingly, "I'll promise you that I'll never call you bad names, or a wretched little shop-boy."

And now Eva had all at once renewed the once painful subject; and Jack, though he scarcely knew why he did it, started directly to his feet.

"I won't indeed call you anything of the kind," she went on, still nestling in comfortably by the fire, but looking up at him all the time prettily and winningly. "And I can't either," she continued, somewhat archly, "because, you know, now you're nothing of the kind."

"You have no business, at any rate, Eva, to remind him of that circumstance;" and Mrs. Moran spoke in displeased fashion.

Eva looked for an instant rather crest-fallen; then asked again-"Then, mother, you will let him go down to Clifford?"

Jack waited for whatever more was to come. "And he had worse news to tell me, far, than even about the fire; he has-and may God help him in his difficulty!-lost every penny of money that he ever had in the world."

"How dreadful!" Jack now spoke very earnestly. "'Tis sad. But it's not his own fault, Jack: that's the only comfort in the business. Some one has failed-it's no use my explaining the whole affair to you and he heard only yesterday that he was a ruined man."

"What! do

you mean before the fire happened?"

"Yes, Jack." "Then, even if the large house is rebuilt at Clifford, they can of course never afford to live there again?" "Never." "And where will they live— where?" Jack spoke in quite an anxious tone, and his breath came thick and fast-why, was best known to himself.

"Your uncle

And then all at once Jack had said "Yes," and given her a good hearty caress.

"Eva, however, knows nothing of all this other trouble," she broke in presently. "She only wants Edwin here now, because it is her whim."

"I'm glad she likes you, mother, at any rate." And then Eva had, in what seemed a desperate hurry, re-entered the room.

"There! There's plenty of money for you to pay with," she began, emptying her purse upon the table, and counting out the shil

came very hot.

"I'll pay all

the expenses,"

she pursued. "There it is, all!" and then she thrust the money into his hand.

"I don't want

it, Eva." No, he would not say more impatient words than these, he thought. She had yet far worse news to hear.

"And I do not want the change either,"

very plainly

she went on, rapidly.

"You can keep it all for Father will be sure to give

that he wishes them to live here;" and then mother stopped abruptly.

"Always?"

Mrs. Moran little knew how Jack dreaded the

answer.

"Yes, dear, always. It will be their home now as well as ours."

"And they are grand and haughty like Eva, and were once rich. And we are"

"Only as God means us to be, Jack-poor; but yet rich enough, you see, after all, to take them in. Your Uncle Joe, it is arranged, will leave them here as my new pupils; and God has given me the brains and power with which to teach and care for them. Say; are not these riches, my boy?"

yourself, every penny. me plenty more."

Poor Jack's pride was again sadly tried.

He opened his hand once more, and down fell, rolling about in all directions, the whole amount of shillings and sixpences.

And neither Jack's nor Eva's pride would at that instant allow them to stoop and pick them up. Alas! What weak and foolish pride! "I'll pay my own expenses!" exclaimed Jack, choking with vexation, "even if I ask mother for the money," which he well knew he must most certainly do.

"And I'll not pick up a single farthing of it!" exclaimed Eva hotly, although it was the last purseful of money she would be able to call her own, poor child, for a very long time to come.

CHAPTER XX.-TOM KEEPS ORDER.

ND then, when it was at last arranged that Jack should accompany Uncle Joe in an hour's time back to Clifford,

the former all at once remembered he

had something to tell his mother.

For this purpose, therefore, he now ran upstairs again to the schoolroom.

She was surrounded by her class of little boys. "Keep yourself still, Tom, do! There's a good boy!" he heard her say, in a tired voice, as he put in his head an instant at the doorway. "You are shuffling your feet again. Why can't you keep them still?"

"Because, as Nell used to say," and Tom spoke in his usual stuttering way, "I've got something in me, Mrs. Moran, which won't be quiet."

"Don't talk nonsense, Tom!" Ah, how she longed also to tell him not to mention Nell's dear name thus !

Think of her little daughter every hour and every minute as she did, she could never well trust herself to speak of her to strangers.

"Mother!" petitioned Jack, "I must speak to you, please. Will you come here an instant? I'll scarcely keep you longer."

Mother glanced around her class.

"Tom, can you keep order, think you, whilst I'm absent?"

She knew quite well that he was by far the most noisy member of the entire group.

"I, Mrs. Moran!" and Tom seemed in the utmost state of surprise. "Yes, Mrs. Moran, of course. I'll keep every one of them in order."

And then a hearty peal of laughter went the round of the room.

"And now," began Jack, when he had drawn his mother quite outside the schoolroom door, "I have a piece of news to tell you."

She looked earnestly into his eyes a moment. There was only one piece of news that she thought would ever seem really good to herself; only that she did not say so.

She only went on looking tenderly into her boy's eyes, and waited for what more he had to say.

Again her countenance fell. "It isn't, I can already see, the news I want."

Jack shook his head.

"But it's other news," she went on; "and good, you say? So tell me, dear."

And then Jack whispered the tale-that he had in

a most wonderful way obtained a junior post in an architect's office-and then could not stay an instant longer, for he heard Uncle Joe's voice calling him from below-stairs.

Away they went presently-Uncle Joe and Jack. "You're a good boy, Jack, for coming with me to-day. It was the only plan possible I could think of for coaxing away Edwin from the old place."

And then, an hour later, when Jack found himself sitting by Edwin's side in the peasant's cottage, and was told by Uncle Joe that they, the two boys, must be good friends now, and help each other in the battle of life, Jack began to think that he ! couldn't be quite awake-only that there was Edwin sitting propped up with pillows in the one rickety arm-chair which the cottage possessed.

And there was Wilton, too, seated on a low settle, whistling odd snatches of songs, as if he didn't in the least care what had happened, or what became of him, so long only as he could go on whistling.

Yes, he would indeed try to make Edwin think how very cosy and comfortable No. 3, Mistletoe Grove was.

"But you haven't an organ there," and Edwin shook his head rather sadly. "And that's nearly all I care for in the world."

"An organ? no. We haven't even a piano. Perhaps one day, though-who knows?-Uncle Joe will be able to buy you another organ; " and Jack spoke hopefully.

Edwin's eyes sparkled with pleasure. How very dearly he must have loved his organ! "Only that of course, then," went on Jack, "there won't be room for it in our house."

"Not even in the largest room of all?" questioned Edwin, in now great anxiety.

"No," and Jack laughed. "Our house is really nothing but a box, as people sometimes say, compared, I should think, with your old home."

"Isn't it a pity!" said Edwin. "A great pity!" "Eva's waiting for you, at any rate-you know that-at our home. You'll like having her there."

"I've missed her dreadfully," broke in Edwin. "She always used to turn over the leaves of my music-book, and never minded the trouble one bit." "Nonsense!" exclaimed Wilton, from his seat on the settle.

Jack looked about him for an instant in great surprise.

Edwin, however, explained in a very few words that it was only Wilton's habit thus to chatter idly. Jack began to not at all relish the idea of having Wilton too always living at home.

"I shouldn't like going back with you at all," said Edwin nervously, "hadn't it been for Eva."

1

"But mother will be so good to you," ventured Jack once more. "You'll quite love her in time. Every one does."

and of daily poverty also, coupled too with more than one bad fainting-fit, was proving itself too much for little Nell's brain.

She really had not known all day what she was exactly about.

and his cousins returned to London.

And when he did so !

A small crowd had assembled quite at the other end of Islington to that in which Mistletoe Grove was situated.

Of course, as every one knows, the sight of a crowd within any of the London districts is not a very wonderful thing; but still Jack peeped an instant before getting into the cab which Uncle Joe had just hailed.

Oh-only a little girl singing! There wasn't very much in that. You could behold such sights by the dozen in London, if you only chose to look. And then the next instant

CHAPTER XXI.-LIGHT OUT OF DARKNESS.

A

ND then the next instant Jack had rushed forward, and forced his way through the crowd.

The song he had so often heard at home-and his own sweet little Nell!

Yes; even the large old rag of a shawl which Meg Ferry had bound around the child's shoulders to protect her from the bitter cold had not prevented his recognising their own lost, lost treasure.

"Darling little Nell! Poor lost little Nell!" and already his boyish arms were bound tightly around her, and he was telling her that Jack had indeed found her at last, her own brother Jack, and that he would never, never lose sight of her again. No, not in all his life.

And yet, was this in all reality Nell herself. So changed-so thin-so spiritless; and also dressed in nothing but rags. Her hat, too, such a battered one!

Yes; he felt sure that it could indeed be no one else-his heart told him this, and that he must not be hurt or begin to doubt in the least because she looked shyly at him, strangely also, as if just awaking from a long, long dismal dream.

"What are you about, dearie?" whispered Meg Ferry, looking up an instant from her wares, which she had just been re-arranging in her basket. She looked now considerably astonished.

Nell somehow managed to drag herself away once more out of Jack's arms, and glanced in bewildered fashion at the old fire-paper woman, as if she did not in the least know how to answer. This life of daily excitement in the open streets,

surprise as well as indignation; "and you haven't sung the last verse yet. They always like that best, you know. Sing away, now. Only think of the money we shall get. Your best, now, dearie, your very best; " and she spoke in a coaxing sort of manner.

And then Nell, who in her present weak and bewildered state of mind would have striven helplessly to do almost anything that any one desired her, sang again.

And, oh, how prettily, how sweetly! Only that, where was all her strength gone?

"Kiss me for some poor orphan child
For whom no kiss is given;
And next for all the happy ones,
And then, for one in Heaven.

"Kiss me for everything I love-
The beautiful and bright.
One kiss, dear mother, for thyself,
And then, once more, good-night."

Jack could bear it no longer.

"You know me, Nell! You must! You haven't surely forgotten me-us-all! It isn't possible!" and he spoke in one of the most injured, heartbroken tones that can well be imagined.

And still she did not answer him. Oh! what was amiss with little Nell?

"Should she take the money now?" she only asked Meg Ferry. "And-and-should she do any more singing?" she also asked, in a curious, business-like, senseless sort of way. "And--"

"Who's that, child?" and Meg whispered the question, pointing meanwhile towards Jack, who had drawn himself on one side for an instant, and really felt as if his heart would break.

If this were Nell, why, oh, why did she not then recognise him? If not, why was it that God had sent any one else so very like her in his path that day?

He could not understand it.
And then Nell spoke.

"That boy there?" she began-oh, how very well it was that Meg Ferry had thus awoke her from that strange dream, and compelled her to answer the question ! -" Oh, Meg Ferry, I know ! It's Jack-it's Jack! My dear old Jack!"

The truth is, then, clear to you at last, Nell. You know now that you are no longer a lost child.