nce."

"I don't think I see it," says Ruth, quietly. She has grown pale
again, and her lips have lost a little of the childish petulant pout
that characterizes them.

"Just over there. Don't you see? Why, you are almost looking at it,
you stupid child."

"I am stupid, I am afraid,"--with a faint smile. "Come in, Miss
Peyton, and gather it yourself." She opens the gate, with a sort of
determination in her manner, and Clarissa, going up to the rose-tree,
plucks the delicate blossom in dispute. Horace has followed her inside
the gate, but, turning rather to the left, falls apparently in love
with an artless white rose-bud that waves gently to and fro upon its
stem, as though eager to attract and rivet admiration.

"I think I prefer this flower, after all," he says, lightly. "May I
ask you to give it to me, Ruth?" His manner is quite easy, very nearly
indifferent, and his back is turned to Clarissa. But his eyes are on
Ruth; and the girl, though with open reluctance and ill-repressed
defiance, is compelled to pick the white rose and give it to him.

"Well, I really don't think you have shown very good taste," says
Clarissa, examining the two flowers. "Mine is the most perfect.
Nevertheless, I suppose wilful man must have his way. Let me settle it
in your coat for you."

Almost as she speaks, the flower drops accidentally from her fingers;
and, both she and Horace making a step forward to recover it, by some
awkward chance they tread on it, and crush the poor, frail little
thing out of all shape. It lies upon the gravel, broken and
disfigured, yet very sweet in death.

"You trod on it," says Horace, rather quickly, to Clarissa.

"No, dear; I really think--indeed I am sure--it was you," returns she,
calmly, but with conviction.

"It doesn't matter: it was hardly worth a discussion," says Ruth, with
an odd laugh. "See how poor a thing it looks now; and, yet, a moment
since it was happy on its tree."

"Never mind, Horace: this is really a charming little bud," says
Clarissa, gayly, holding out the rose of her own choosing: "at least
you must try to be content with it. Good-by, Ruth; come up to Gowran
some day soon, and take those books you asked for the other day."

"Thank you, Miss Peyton. I shall come soon."

"Good-by," says Horace.

"Good-by," returns she. But it is to Clarissa, not to him, she
addresses the word of farewell.

When the mill has been left some distance behind them, and Ruth's
slight figure,