THE STORY OF LITTLE JENNY.

"Doch-alles, was dazu mich trieb,

Gott, war so gut! ach, war so lieb !"-FAUST.

ORDAUNT LANGLEY determined to take lodgings in town.

He said, and said truly, that his plans were not fixed. He did not know whether he should or should not go abroad; but, pending a decision, he came to London for the season, and in order to be near his club and other attractions, took lodgings in Carruthers Street, St James's.

The rooms suited him. The landlady was one Mrs Simcox, a grey and greedy woman with a griping eye, yet with a fluttering, deferentially-caressing manner towards a desirable inmate, and a keen knowledge, ripened by much practice, of the best way to make the most out of a lodger. She had a cold, hard look, and gave you something of the bleak and chilly impression produced by the aspect of a granite house or wall on a bitter, easterly-windy day. Mordaunt was say five or six and twenty. He was a man of easy fortune, and of an easier temper. He was kindly, goodnatured, and pleasure-loving. With high health and good spirits, handsome, cultured, and sweet-natured, he enjoyed life very much. He enjoyed, but never thought about enjoyment. He had a temperamental facility for living in the hour, and he could always

and easily put from him any thought which might be inconvenient or distracting.

Temperament, by the way, is a much stronger and deeper thing than character. We can mould and change our characters; we can never alter our temperaments. Temperament underlies and dominates character. We may be conscious of a defect of temperament; we may counteract the issues of that defect, but we can never eradicate the defect itself.

When Mordaunt had lodged for some little time with Mrs Simcox, he became aware, through the medium of chance passing glimpses on the stairs, of a very pretty little girl, who seemed to be an inhabitant of the house. After seeing her in this chance, occasional manner several times, Mordaunt began, in his good-natured way, to give the girl a little nod, and to say "Good-day," "Fine morning," or some other little greeting. His notice produced a little smile and a large blush, both very shy and timid; but the girl seemed pleased too at his kindly accost, and flitted rapidly by with a quick darting grace and a heightened colour. She was pale, and looked delicate, but was pretty of face and figure, and had wonderful large, eager, brown eyes; eyes so distinctive in character that they absorbed the whole expression of the face. Her figure was slight and rather fragile. She was neatly but very plainly dressed in some common dark stuff. Mordaunt noticed that she had small and refined hands, and a very little foot.

"Wonder who that little girl is," thought Mordaunt, as he stood before the fireplace, after nodding to the maiden on his way up-stairs. "She's pretty; she rather grows upon you. Can't be old Simcox's daughter. No-the girl looks a little lady; a kind

of Perdita. If I think of it, I'll ask Simcox, the next time I see her. What a pretty way the little thing has of blushing and lisping out something! I'll certainly inquire." The moment that he made the resolution to inquire he also forgot it, and thought of other things. He was not very strong or tenacious of purpose.

On one occasion he returned to his rooms in the middle of the day. Letting himself in with his latch-key, he went up-stairs. Seeing something in his peculiar easy-chair, he moved softly towards it and looked in.

Curled up in the large chair, utterly absorbed in a book, was the little girl that Mordaunt nodded and spoke to. She was so deeply interested in her reading that he approached unobserved, and saw that she had taken one volume of his Scott's novels. When she saw him she started up in great trepidation, and with a crimson face began to stammer out a hurried crowd of apologies.

Oh, never mind," said good-natured Mordaunt, with his pleasant smile. "So you like reading, little one? What have you got there? Ivanhoe.' Good! couldn't do better. What's your name, by the way?" "Jenny, sir-little Jenny they call me."

Well, little Jenny, now listen. As you like reading, I make you free of my room and of my books. Come in when you like, when I'm out, and read what you like. There will that please you?"

"Oh, sir, I'm so grateful! May I really read your books? Thank you, sir, so much. It's dull sometimes, and books are such nice company. I will take great care of them, sir. I know" (this was said with a fierce blush), "I know I ought not to have read 'Ivanhoe' in your room without your leave; and it's very, very kind of you not to be angry."

Here the little girl quitted the room, after curtseying

deeply. Her expressive eyes looked more gratitude than she spoke. Mordaunt ruminated a good deal. He shortly afterwards remembered to extract some information about the girl from Mrs Simcox; but he found his landlady but little inclined to be communicative. Jenny's reprehensible conduct in reading a lodger's books by stealth, led to the pleasant result that she could, without fear or sense of wrong, browse undisturbedly in the free pasture of English literature afforded by Mordaunt's library; and his books beguiled many a sad and weary hour for the lonely little girl, whose intelligence and imagination brightened day by day. She seemed much happier than she had been when Mordaunt came to the lodgings. Very much of ill-health is only a want of happiness.

Gradually, as they became better friends, Mordaunt began to ask Jenny about herself. She did not know very much. She called Mrs Simcox "aunt," but did not think that the landlady really was her aunt. She had never known father or mother, or their love or care ; but she remembered well an old servant who had died when she was a little girl. This loss had been her first great early sorrow. Then she had been handed over to another woman, a sister of Mrs Simcox, and ultimately had been transferred to Simcox, who, if she knew anything about Jenny's birth and parentage, would never tell the girl anything. Jenny believed that some allowance was paid for her, but said Mrs Simcox would know about that. She said Mrs Simcox was not very unkind; but admitted that she was not very happy. She had no young friends; she thought that those girls must be very happy who had fathers and mothers, and homes, and teaching, and kindness, and friends. She had not had much

She

Oh

education, but had taught herself all she could. was very solitary, and sometimes very sad. yes, she liked reading dearly! and had been once or twice to the play, which she had enjoyed immensely. Would like to go again very, very much; but saw no chance. She had once been to Margate, and thought the sea so grand and beautiful. Did not go out every day; oh, dear no!-not very often; there was no one to go with. There had been other lodgers, but she had not liked any of them. They never took any notice of her, and were not kind. She admitted, with contrition, having read some of their books. Thought she was eighteen, but Mrs Simcox might know. Had never been to church. Who was to take her? Didn't want to go there; thought they must be melancholy places, but would like dearly to go to a theatre. Had no silk frock. Liked dear Sir Walter Scott so much, but had never read Shakspeare. These confessions amused and interested Mordaunt. He began to turn. over in his kindly mind plans for giving the poor girl a little pleasure.

To this end Mordaunt bought for Jenny a silk dress; then he added a shawl, gloves, and other articles of feminine attire. He glowed with pleasure as he observed the delight with which his protégée received these gifts; a delight which was composed of joy at such, to her, beautiful presents, and of gratitude to him for his kindness. Mordaunt was half-surprised to see what a little lady Jenny looked when she was nicely dressed; and he next proposed to take her to the play. How overjoyed Jenny was to go to the theatre! how proud beyond description to go there with such a gentleman! Her undisguised rapture greatly pleased the kindly Mordaunt ; but he had no