ame
Giche, when the ditty came to an end.

"Yes; in filling others' lives we fill our own. Is that what you mean,
Madame Giche?" inquired Inna, leaving the piano, and coming to kneel on
the hearth.

"Yes. The daisy wasn't thinking of what she was doing, but rather of
herself; seeking great things for herself, not seeing--poor little
thing!--that in just blooming where she was placed she was in a way
blessing heaven and earth, and making her own crown; and missing that,
her life was a failure."

Just then in came the three little girls from the park, Miss Gordon with
them.

"Oh, grand-auntie, we've brought such a lovely bunch of marsh
marigolds," cried Sybil. "Jenny has them;" and Jenny came forward,
dropping on one knee to present them, and tossing her hat on the floor.

The kindly old lady patted the yellow-haired fluffy head, taking the
flowers from her, and touching their petals as in fond reverence.

"Children, at the sight of these flowers I always see myself a child
again," said she, a sweet far-away light in her dark eyes.

"And what do you see, grand-auntie--what were you like?" inquired
nimble-tongued Sybil.

"Yes, dear Madame Giche, what were you like?" echoed Jenny.

"My dear, I was just what Sybil is now. I half fancy, sometimes, that it
must be myself, when I see her running about on the terraces."

"But your home wasn't here, grand-auntie," said Olive, surprised out of
her silence.

"No, dear; 'tis the house recalls me to myself. Wyvern Court was very
different from this."

"Was that the name of your home, Madame Giche?" inquired matter-of-fact
Jenny, out of the silence that followed.

"The dearest spot on earth to you--wasn't it, grand-auntie?" prattled
Sybil.

"Yes; our childhood's home is that, I suppose, be it a cottage or a
castle, revisited in imagination at life's close," sighed the old lady.

"And that was your--your womanhood's home--as well," replied Sybil,
hesitating a little to find a suitable word.

"Yes, dear; there I had all my joys and sorrows."

"And now?" whispered Inna, who was kneeling by her side, stroking one of
her soft wrinkled hands.

"It is life's sweet after-glow with me; peace after pain and sorrow,
like the light in the sky after sunset."

"Oh, grand-auntie, how beautiful that must be to you if it is at all
like that!" cried Sybil, pointing at a distant window. Outside lay the
park, the copse, and surrounding landscape, all aglow with the changeful
tin