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KATE and I had a busy early morning of it. There was
the sitting-room to put in order and coax into comfortable
looks, and the fire to make; and this too in very good
season before any one else could be up. Similar kind
offices must be performed for the breakfast-room, which was,
however, much less amenable to coaxing. Do what we
would it was but a bright fire, some lumber-room chairs
(of which the original striking colours were much worn
off); and the breakfast-table—standing on a centre-piece
of carpet with a broad border of bare floor. The floor was
very white, and the chairs very nicely dusted, and the table—
we did thank Mr. Pratt in our hearts for supposing we
might have a friend with us—had its old supply of linen,
china and silver, minus the tea-set. And yet it looked
very little like our breakfast-room,—though that stream of
sunlight was certainly “heartsome,” as we remarked to
each other, and fairer than had ever entered our town
house.

“If one could only get here without coming through that
empty drawing-room—” Kate said.

“Never mind, this will look all the brighter.”

We left the room to get warm at its leisure, and went to
see about breakfast. Mrs. Howard had preceded us in
this department, but there were still some light matters for
us to do, while she would do others that she thought less
pleasant. Those finished we took off our aprons and proceeded
to the parlour.

I suppose the quick work and early rising in the cold
may have made us look pale or tired. Mr. Rodney's face

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said as much, and Mr. Howard with a man's disregard of
family secrets, exclaimed,

“What in the world have you been about?”

We gave him our lips by way of good-morning and
answer; but while I seated myself at the corner of the fire
my father held Kate fast, and repeated his question.

“What have you been about?”

“I have been—among the flours—just now,” said Kate
looking down and smothering a laugh.

“Doing what?”

“They wanted to be turned in a new direction—or at
least they were too aspiring,—I have been reducing them
within proper limits.”

“At this time of day!” said my father.

“The only time of day when they usually flourish, sir—
the flours of an hour which is popularly called breakfast-time.
By some people this species is denominated Muffinaria
Matinensis.”

And covering her face with her hands, the laugh burst
forth in good earnest. The gentlemen laughed too,—because
they couldn't help it.

“You silly child!” said my father,—“what do you
mean? Are those the only flowers you have been attending
to?”

“Not quite, papa,—I have managed to pick up a little
heartsease.”

My father drew her to him for another kiss, but looked
as if he had found less than a little.

“What have you done with your `Muffinaria'?”

“O they are safe—” said Kate smiling, though the bright
tears were ready to fall. “I have delivered them into the
delicate hands of 'Dency Barrington,—mamma insisted
that mine were too robust for the purpose.”

“Where did you find 'Dency Barrington?”

“My dear father!” said Kate, “you have certainly
taken up—whose rule was it—for obtaining information,
this morning! Suppose I were to give what is called a
true American answer, and inquire how you and Mr. Rodney
could choose such a shadowy corner to stand in, this
bright day?”

Mr. Howard passed his hand once or twice very fondly

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over her head, pushing the hair off her forehead and looking
at her in a way that made reply hardly necessary.

“I once had a daughter,” he said, “who would not have
borne `the loss of all things' quite so cheerfully. Can you
be the very same child I brought with me from Philadelphia?”

“As near as possible, papa!—Only my notions have so
much sense about them that they do not venture out when
they are sure to be frost-bitten. You know none but very
humble flowers dare shew their faces until settled warm
weather.”

“And are there no humble flowers for you to copy but
snow-drops?” said Mr. Rodney.

Kate laughed, and the snow-drop was very quickly supplanted.

“Why really,” she said, “I did not think of that before—
Gracie does look something like one, down there in the
corner. But lilies are rather disconsolate—and crocuses
rather pert,—and violets deal too exclusively in unseen
influences—I don't know that there is anything left for us
but snow-drops.”—

“And the rose a-quatre-saisons”—said Mr. Collingwood
smiling.

But as my father remarked, that was hardly left.

“Nobody answers my questions,” said Kate, “and I am
expected to answer everybody!”

“I must appoint a referee, if you have any more to
ask,” said Mr. Howard,—“I am going to my study. But
you have the clue to my shadowy corner, my dear; and I
daresay Mr. Rodney will give you one to his, if you ask
him. Perhaps you can succeed in guiding him out.”

Kate preferred another mode of tactics,—choosing rather
to abolish the shadows than to find her way through them
She stood still for a moment after Mr. Howard had gone,
and then looking up at the referee with a gravity which
somewhat impaired his own, she said,

“Did you ever study botany, Mr. Collingwood?”

“A little, Miss Howard.—Not so much as some other
things.”

“Never learned anything about the growth and cultivation
of heartsease?”

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But she could not raise her eyes again for a minute after
his glance.

“`Will't please you sit'? and give me a lesson in
words?” Mr. Rodney said, gently installing her in one of
the easy-chairs, and taking his stand at the back of it.
“I believe I know heartsease when I see it—what about
its culture?”

“Perhaps you know then,” said Kate, her lips trembling
a little but steadying themselves by degrees, “that it is
a particular little flower, and needs particular soil and care.
And there are many varieties,—some all purple, and some
all gold; but I think the purple-dashed ones are the prettiest.
Then too it loves the shade, Mr. Rodney, and thrives
best there. If you put one of the fine ones in the full light
of the open ground it will sometimes lose its deep colour,
and the flowers will be smaller and all yellow—I think
them not so fair. Some of the best I have grow at the
back of the house.”

There was a deep silence.

“Might one have the benefit of your thoughts?” said
Kate when some ten minutes had passed.

“One might—” said Mr. Collingwood smiling. “They
were just two. The first concerned the exceeding good
care I shall take of all the heartsease that ever comes into
my possession—or guardianship. The second you may
call a botanical question—Might not this flower, in of course
a different soil and exposure, bear a little more of the sunshine
and yet keep all its sweet fairness?”

“I must go and see to my Muffinaria!” said Kate springing
from her chair. “I am certain that 'Dency is exposing
them to too much heat!”

“Gracie!” said Mr. Collingwood presently, “what are
you thinking of? will you tell me?”

“I don't quite know myself, sir,” I said laughing—“I was
just trying to find out.—My thoughts seemed to have got
tangled.”

He smiled.

“Have you really some of the true English heartsease?
or was Miss Kate talking entirely from imagination?”

“O we have a number! very fine ones!”

“It is a very lovely flower!”

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“And such a pretty name. But isn't it strange that the
French name should have so different a meaning?”

“Do you think it is so different Gracie? it does not seem
that to me.”

“Pensées?”—

“No,—thoughts are some of the best heartsease I ever
had.”

“To be sure—” I said, “that is true sometimes. But
then to have it true as a rule one's thoughts must be in very
nice order and regulation.”

“There is no doubt about that, Gracie. But then, as
you say, I would not give much for the so-called heartsease
which one's thoughts are at war with. Such is not a peace—
it is only a truce. There is no way with your thoughts
but to make friends of them,—then they will fight for you
against the world!”

“If anybody is curious on the subject of Muffinaria,”
said Kate opening the door, “they are at present ready for
inspection.”

She made a very bright connecting link between the
room we left and the room we were going to, and I half
hoped that Mr. Collingwood might notice nothing else on
the way; but though I could not see that he looked about
him, I yet felt sure that his eye sought one or two familiar
places to find whether they were filled or empty. Kate
and I both read it in his face when we first sat down to
breakfast; but either other influences wore that off, or Mr.
Collingwood thought there was enough thoughtfulness afloat
without his, for there was no appearance of it afterwards.

A part of that day was spent in a long walk; from which
we returned to find Mr. Carvill managing his steed and his
impatience at our door. Or rather our eyes found him
there; for before our feet could get so far Mr. Carvill had
espied us, and in the next minute he was directly in our
path and with no apparent intention of getting out of it.

“Hope I see you well, young ladies” he said, uncovering,—
“hardly needful to ask—only you might not know so
well as I that your faces are in very partial concealment.”

“Then it is quite unnecessary for me to ask you any
questions,” said Mr. Rodney smiling.

“Good morning!” said Mr. Carvill, as if but just aware

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of his brother's presence, and then bringing back his attention
to us. “I made so bold as to ride over after Mr.
Collingwood this morning young ladies, because I was
morally sure he wouldn't come if I didn't.”

“Morally sure I wouldn't keep my promise?” said Mr.
Rodney.

“`Il fait toujours bon tenir son cheval par la bride'”—
said the gentleman shrugging his shoulders,—“and Mrs.
Carvill had set down her foot that you must come—so I
put mine in the stirrup to make certain,—not thinking it
safe to trust even your sense of duty. What do you say
Miss Howard?”

“About what, sir?”

“Why—Stand still!” said Mr. Carvill, as his horse after
one or two bridlings of the head took a sudden wheel,
and was with some difficulty brought up to face us again—
for which he was rewarded with a touch of Mr. Carvill's
spurs and gave an eccentric spring in consequence.—“No
occasion to be frightened Miss Kate—if I run over anybody
it won't be you—I believe there is a contingent barrier
somewhere.—But you see the advantage of this little man
œuvre is, that when I come round again you strike me
with all the force of novelty.”

“It would strike me with all the force of novelty if you
would come straight to the point, and tell what you are
after,” said Mr. Rodney.

“I'll be after telling you presently sir,” said Mr. Carvill
politely. “Do you think now Miss Kate that anybody—
that is to say Mrs. Howard of course—would object to Mr.
Collingwood's dining at the Lea to-day? Mrs. Carvill is
very anxious—and as I shall not see him again till the
winter you can probably imagine my feelings—but—this
creature is certainly possessed with the spirit of whirligig!”

“If you had only taken the trouble to go in and see
mamma, sir,” said Kate, “she could have saved so severe a
trial of his patience, and satisfied you at once.”

“Do him good to have his patience tried!” said Mr. Carvill.
“I am extremely sorry Miss Kate to have frightened
you into anything like paleness—I shall not soon forget it,—
but so far as I am concerned this interview has been

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perfectly satisfactory and well worth waiting for.—My mind is
quite at rest—wish my horse was!”

“They will be in some danger of growing pale if you
keep them standing here much longer,” said Mr. Rodney,
laughing in spite of himself at the extreme demureness with
which this was spoken. “Let Necker take you out of our
way and home as fast as he is inclined to,—I shall not fail
of my word.”

“What surety?—you engaged in some interesting conversation—
Miss Howard suddenly says `Oh!'—whereupon
you inquire, and find that it is nine o'clock. Meantime I
have spent the evening over the Edinburgh Encyclopedia—
article `Social exchanges'—and can make nothing of it.”

“It is not anywhere near your dinner-hour yet,” said Mr.
Collingwood gravely,—“your watch must be too fast.”

“My watch is perfect, Mr. Collingwood. So is my foresight.
What time do you go in the morning?”

“Nine o'clock, Mr. Carvill.”

“Very good; and as I once had the pleasure of telling
these young ladies—on an occasion which I would not for
the world recall to their recollection—I really have some
affection for my absent brother.”

Mr. Rodney smiled, but then stepping up to Necker and
resting one hand on his shoulder, he said,

“What do you want with me Carvill?—say quickly.”

“Better stand off,” said Mr. Carvill,—“if you get run
over I won't answer for the consequences. What do I
want?—this same absent brother of mine.”

“But you will have him at dinner.”

“See a polite shadow at the far end of the table—that's
all. Therefore, to come to the point at once, it has occurred
to me—that as the said dinner will not be served but in the
neighbourhood of duskiness and atmosphere of wax-lights,
you had better give me a little of your time beforehand,—
as otherwise you might be detained till `the witching hour
of night.' In which case you might fall in with some hocuspocus,
and not reach Glen Luna any more. Which would—
to say the least—be a catastrophe.”

“I will come immediately,” said Mr. Rodney smiling.

“Have a care then!—`Otez-vous!' as my wife says to
the fag-end of her patience.”—

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And reining back his horse to give full effect to his sudden
dash forward, Mr. Carvill bowed low and went off.

“Must you go to-morrow, Mr. Rodney?” I said as we
walked on to the house.

“I must indeed—absolutely.”

“This is but a tiny visit,” said Kate.

“I trust the absence which follows it will be short in
proportion.”

“You were talking to Mr. Suydam about February—
will you be here then?” I said.

“Hardly so soon as that, Gracie, I fear.”

“But you will come as soon as you can? you will not
let Mr. Carvill keep you in town?”

“I shall not let Mr. Carvill nor any one else keep me a
moment longer than I can help.”

“Ah!” I said, “you do not know how few friends we
have in this region, or you would not laugh at me for asking
such a question.”

“I think that could only be called a smile, Gracie. But
I do know how few friends I have—anywhere—that are
just what I mean by the word. Keep back Wolfgang—
you must not come in.”

Wolfgang wagged his tail, and looked at Kate.

“Is my authority transferred?” said Mr. Rodney with a
laughing appeal in the same direction. “Because in that
case, Wolfgang's mistress will please to issue her orders.”

We laughed too at the dog's comical look, and upon the
strength of that he insinuatingly pushed himself in.

“It is the funniest thing!” I said. “He will do anything
she tells him to, and will mind none of the rest of us if
Kate is by.”

“He is a remarkably sensible dog—” said his master,—
“probably he has private reasons which he never told you,
Gracie.”

“I think he will be almost as sorry to part with Kate as
she will be to part with him, Mr. Rodney.”

“And I think I should be the most sorry of the three.”—

“Why?”

“Why?—Don't you suppose I have a sufficient regard
for the two parties in question to be unwilling to displease
them?”

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“But you said the most sorry—”

“O you have no idea of the extent to which I carry my
sympathy with Wolfgang!” said Mr. Collingwood laughing
as he left the room.

“How much remains of that copying?” said Kate.
“Could we finish it to-day?”

“Easily—and maybe Mr. Rodney would take the papers
for us.”

“That is what I was thinking of. But don't get them
out just now, dear. Do you know next week papa is
going to look over our old possessions, and see which of
them we are entitled to?”

“I didn't know we were entitled to any.”

“They are stored at Wiamee you know, and papa says
the receiver took some which the law allows everybody—
fifty dollars worth of books and so on. It would be
something to have even that.”

“Yes—something. But why mayn't I begin to copy?
it will soon be dark.”

“Have those papers just been waiting for me?” said
Mr. Rodney as he came in again. “I did not know but
they were done.”

Kate smiled.

“Does North Morris lie in your way to Rutland, Mr.
Rodney?”

“I go directly through it. Have you any commands?”

“Only this same bundle of papers—it is rather too large
to send from here through the post-office. Would it give
you much trouble to take charge of it?”

“None in the world—if you will give them to me just
as they are.”

“We will give them to you nicely done up and sealed,
that none of them may get lost,” said Kate.

“What are you going to do while I am away this afternoon?”

“Now Mr. Rodney,” she said, answering his look with
a most fair one, “please do not ask any questions,—see
how long the shadows are—it is quite time for you to go.
And if you wear such a grave face at the Lea, Mr. Carvill
will think witchcraft is abroad in the day-time.”

“He would come near the truth for once,” said Mr.

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Collingwood. “I strongly suspect some conjuration to keep
me here, for I feel a singular dislike to going away. Gracie,
don't send out any of your familiars to hinder my coming
back.”

“O no,” I said laughing,—“we shall wait tea for you,
sir.”

We finished our copying, and then sat waiting in the
twilight, and talking of what things we were to have per
favour of the statute.

“Papa,” I said, as a sudden recollection came over me,
“I want to ask you now while I have a chance—what did
you mean last night when you were talking about gold
boxes and jewels?—I asked Kate but she didn't seem to
understand it any better than I did. Was that a real dream
of yours?”

“There was as much reality about it as there is about
most dreams, my dear.”

“But what made you bring it up? what had it to do with
what we were talking of?”

“We were not talking of anything just then Gracie, if
you remember,” said Mr. Howard looking down at me from
his stand before the fire.

But he saw that I looked puzzled; and coming nearer
and taking my hand in both of his, he said with a smile,

“It wouldn't be very strange my dear if after all our
losses I should dream of gold and jewels.”

“No papa—but then you were talking—I don't know, I
suppose I am stupid.”

“Not a bit of it;—but older heads than yours, Gracie,
have failed to follow out another person's train of thought.
I was thinking of the want of what I once had; and Mr.
Rodney with most discriminating kindness, reminded me
that what I have left is far more precious than anything
Mr. McLoon could take away. Do you understand
that?”

“Perfectly, papa; it has been such a pleasant thought
in all these troubles that nobody could touch any of us.
And that was how you came to talk about Portia?”—

“That was how we came to talk about Portia, in her
leaden casket,—much better worth having you see, Gracie,
than the fool's head in the silver one. So you perceive

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that if I had plenty of money and half a dozen silly children,
I should be a poorer man than I am now with only
you and Kate.”

“That might be, in more ways than one,” said I laughing.
“Ah papa! they would be poorer children too—unless
one of them was Kate.”

“And another one Grace,” said my father kissing me.
“Come over here and sit down on my lap. You would be
a treasure of a daughter, my dear, to those people who like
to have always a baby in the house. As for me, I am sadly
afraid you will never grow up.”

“I am sadly afraid you don't want me to, papa,” I said
laying my head down on his shoulder. “But how can one
grow up unless one lives among other people?—I haven't
any idea how old I am or ought to be.”

“I said true,” remarked Mr. Howard after a pause,
“when I once called all these things trifles. How gently
we have been dealt with!—even as regards this world it is
only the least precious things we have lost; and the most
precious—each other's love and sympathy and one-mindedness—
are all left, all increased; and stand out in a full
relief they could scarce otherwise have had.”

“And we have learned to put a truer estimate upon
things,” said Mrs. Howard.

“Much truer, my dear—having pretty reasonable eyes
to begin with,—at least some of us. Certainly if poverty
is not your niche, you have the power of filling more than
one.”

“Don't you think every true woman has that, papa?”
said Kate.

“Every true woman Kate, carries about with her a
sort of india-rubber framework that fits itself to any niche
where she may be placed; but at the same time one niche
is better adapted to her than another. As one woman
needs the drapery of wealth and circumstance; while
another takes all the adorning upon herself, and makes you
forget to look at her niche.”

“And don't men have the power of adaptation too?”
said Mrs. Howard smiling. “My memory would rather
say yes.”

“Sometimes—” said my father,—“but they are more

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angular and unmanageable, and not always content with
their niche when they get it. Therefore they stick themselves
into some other—a fact which everybody finds out
but themselves.

“Here comes Mr. Rodney and now let us have tea.”

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