drawling voice to call over the items which she found in that receptacle.

'A novel, "The Children of the Abbey," without a cover.'

'Ah!' sighed Miss Pew.

'One stocking with a rusty darning-needle sticking in it. Five apples,
two mouldy. A square of hardbake. An old neck-ribbon. An odd cuff. Seven
letters. A knife, with the blade broken. A bundle of pen-and-ink--well, I
suppose they are meant for sketches.'

'Hand them over to me,' commanded Miss Pew.

She had seen some of Ida Palliser's pen-and-ink sketches before
to-day--had seen herself represented in every ridiculous guise and
attitude by that young person's facile pen. Her large cheeks reddened in
anticipation of her pupil's insolence. She took the sheaf of crumpled
paper and thrust it hastily into her pocket.

A ripple of laughter swept over Miss Palliser's resolute face; but she
said not a word.

'Half a New Testament--the margins shamefully scribbled over,' pursued
Miss Pillby, with implacable monotony. 'Three Brazil nuts. A piece of
slate-pencil. The photograph of a little boy--'

'My brother,' cried Ida hastily. 'I hope you are not going to confiscate
that, Miss Pew, as you have confiscated my sketches.'

'It would be no more than you deserve if I were to burn everything in