pon those tints, not so much to gratify
Ethel, as because her own wearied spirit craved the repose of home
sameness, nor how she had finally sent to Paris for the paper that
looked so quiet, but was so exquisitely finished, that the whole room
had a new air of refinement.

The most notable novelty was a water-coloured sketch, a labour of love
from the busy hands in New Zealand, which had stolen a few hours from
their many tasks to send Dr. May the presentment of his namesake
grandson. Little Dickie stood before them, a true son of the
humming-bird sprite, delicately limbed and featured, and with elastic
springiness, visible even in the pencilled outline. The dancing dark
eyes were all Meta's, though the sturdy clasp of the hands, and the
curl that hung over the brow, brought back the reflection of Harry's
baby days.

It would have been a charming picture, even if it had not been by
Meta's pencil, and of Norman's child, and it chained Ethel for more
than one interval of longing loving study.

Tom interrupted her in one of these contemplations. 'Poor Flora,' he
said, with more feeling than he usually allowed to affect his voice,
'that picture is a hard trial to her. I caught her looking at it for
full ten minutes, and at last she turned away with her eyes full of
tears.'

'I do not wonder,' said Ethel. 'There is a certain likeness to that
poor little Leonora, and I think Flora misses her more every year.'

'Such a child as Margaret is just the thing to cause the other to be
missed.'

'What do you think of Margaret this time?' said Ethel, for Tom alone
ever durst seriously touch on the undefined impression that all
entertained of Flora's only child.

'If Flora were only silly about her,' said Tom, 'one might have some
hope; but unluckily she is as judicious there as in everything else,
and the child gets more deplorable every year. She has got the look of
deformity, and yet she is not deformed; and the queer sullen ways of
deficiency, but she has more wit than her father already, and more
cunning.'

'As long as there is a mind to work on, one hopes' said Ethel.

'I could stand her better if she were foolish!' exclaimed Tom, 'but I
can't endure to see her come into the room to be courted by every one,
and be as cross as she dares before her mother. Behind Flora's back, I
don't know which she uses worst, her father or her grandfather. I came
down upon little Miss at last for her treatment of the Doctor, a