hand, she stood for a moment
looking at Flora. Though it was but a few minutes since she was
darting round like a humming-bird, she was now sleeping as sweetly as
a babe. She made an extremely pretty picture in her slumber, with the
long dark eyelashes resting on her youthful cheek, and a shower of
dark curls falling over her arm. "No wonder Alfred loved her so
dearly," thought she. "If his spirit can see us, he must bless me
for saving his innocent child." Filled with this solemn and tender
thought, she knelt by the bedside, and prayed for blessing and
guidance in the task she had undertaken.

The unexpected finding of a link connected with old times had a
salutary effect on Flora's spirits. In the morning, she said that she
had had pleasant dreams about Rosabella and Tulee, and that she didn't
mean to be homesick any more. "It's very ungrateful," added she, "when
my dear, good Mamita Lila does so much to make me happy."

"To help you keep your good resolution, I propose that we go to the
Athenaeum," said Mrs. Delano, smiling. Flora had never been in a
gallery of paintings, and she was as much pleased as a little child
with a new picture-book. Her enthusiasm attracted attention, and
visitors smiled to see her clap her hands, and to hear her little
shouts of pleasure or of fun. Ladies said to each other, "It's plain
that this lively little _adoptee_ of Mrs. Delano's has never been much
in good society." And gentlemen answered, "It is equally obvious that
she has never kept vulgar company."

Mrs. Delano's nice ideas of conventional propriety were a little
disturbed, and she was slightly annoyed by the attention they
attracted. But she said to herself, "If I am always checking the
child, I shall spoil the naturalness which makes her so charming." So
she quietly went on explaining the pictures, and giving an account of
the artists.

The next day it rained; and Mrs. Delano read aloud "The Lady of the
Lake," stopping now and then to explain its connection with Scottish
history, or to tell what scenes Rossini had introduced in _La Donna
del Lago_, which she had heard performed in Paris. The scenes of the
opera were eagerly imbibed, but the historical lessons rolled off
her memory, like water from a duck's back. It continued to rain and
drizzle for three days; and Flora, who was very atmospheric, began
to yield to the dismal influence of the weather. Her watchful friend
noticed the shadow of homesickness coming over the