avy velvet curtains, which at
night-time drew round the whole of the large bay window which formed the
end of the pretty, cosy room. Bridgie took especial pleasure in the
effect of a great brass vase which, on its oaken pedestal, stood sharply
outlined against the rich, dark folds. She moved its position now,
moved it back into its original place, and touched the leaves of the
chrysanthemum which stood therein with a caressing hand. Six years'
residence in a town had not sufficed to teach the one-time mistress of
Knock Castle to be economical when purchasing flowers. "I can't live
without them. It's not my fault if they are dear!" she would protest to
her own conscience at the sight of the florist's bill.

And in truth, who could expect a girl to be content with a few scant
blossoms when she had lived all her early age in the midst of prodigal
plenty! In spring the fields had been white with snowdrops. Sylvia
sent over small packing-cases every February, filled with hundreds and
hundreds of little tight bunches of the spotless white flowers, and
almost every woman of Bridgie's acquaintance rejoiced with her on their
arrival. After the snowdrops came on the wild daffodils and bluebells
and primroses. They arrived in cases also, fragrant with the scent
which was really no scent at all, but just the incarnation of everything
fresh, and pure, and rural. Then came the blossoming of trees. Bridgie
sighed whenever she thought of blossom, for that was one thing which
would _not_ pack; and the want of greenery too, that was another cross
to the city dweller. She longed to break off great branches of trees,
and place them in corners of the room; she longed to wander into the
fields and pick handfuls of grasses, and honeysuckle, and prickly briar
sprays. Who could blame her for taking advantage of what compensation
lay within reach?

This afternoon, however, the contemplation of the tawny chrysanthemums
displayed in the brass vase failed to inspire the usual joy. Bridgie's
eyes were bright indeed as she turned back into the room, but it was the
sort of brightness which betokens tears repressed. She laid her hand on
the little sister's shoulders, and spoke in the deepest tone of her
tender Irish voice--

"What has been happening to you, my Pixie, all this time when I've been
treating you as a child? Have you been growing up quietly into a little
woman?"

Pixie smiled up into her face--a bright, unclouded smile.