l you how we hunted. When Maria came home the next day she
was dreadfully vexed, and inclined to blame me for having let Sophy be
so much in my room.

"'You don't think she has taken my brooch,' I said. But Maria would not
answer decidedly. She only murmured something about not trusting
strangers! Weeks went on--I tried not to think about my brooch any more,
but it had made a talk in the house, and Sophy felt it painfully, and
when at last she said she would rather go home, I could not but feel it
might be better. The very day before she was to leave I was startled by
a message from cook asking me to go to see something in the kitchen. It
was afternoon--an unusual time for her to want to see me, but I went at
once.

"There stood cook, her kind old face beaming with pleasure.

[Illustration]

"'Just see here, Miss Lucy,' she said. On the dresser lay a cauliflower
she was on the point of preparing for cooking. She pulled aside the big
green leaves at the top, and there, nestling on the creamy-looking
surface underneath, lay my diamond brooch! It had dropt from the front
of my dress, no doubt, that day in the garden, and the baby
cauliflower's leaves had grown over it!

"You can fancy my joy, Linda, and still more the joy of poor Sophy.
Instead of leaving, she lived with me more than twenty years. But what's
the matter now, Linda? Are you not listening?"

"Oh, dear, yes, Grandmamma, and I do so like the story. But I just saw
something shining on the frill of my dress, and see here!" And Linda
held out her scissors, which had caught in a flounce.

[Illustration]

ONLY A BUNCH OF VIOLETS.

This is not a story that I am going to tell you. It is just a little
thing that happened one day when I was out walking, and which I have
never forgotten.

It did not happen in London, but in Paris, where I was then living. Some
of you may have been there, and if so you know better than I can tell
you what a very pretty, bright and charming place it is. That is to say,
the best parts of the town are pretty and bright-looking, especially in
sunny summer weather. But there are poor parts of Paris too, though you
are not likely to have seen them, and alas, there are many very poor
people also!

I was walking that day in the long road, or avenue rather, which is
called the Champs Elysees. It is very wide indeed, and bordered on both
sides by beautiful trees, among which in the summer are to be seen
quantities of well-dre