nd was likened by her
aunt to a rural Flora or Proserpine that summer; though when in the
house she was just the most sonsy, sensible, companionable little
earthly maiden that could be fancied. Eleanor was not under size
indeed; but so much like her own wild flowers in pure simpleness and
sweet natural good qualities that Mrs. Caxton was sometimes inclined to
bestow the endearing diminutive upon her; so sound and sweet she was.

"And what are all these?" said Mrs. Caxton one day stopping before an
elegant basket.

"Don't you like them?"

"Very much. Why you have got a good many kinds here."

"That is Hart's Tongue, you know--that is wall spleenwort, and that is
the other kind; handsome things are they not?"

"And this?"

"That is the forked spleenwort. You don't know it? I rode away, away up
the mountain for it yesterday That is where I got those Woodsia's
too--aren't they beautiful? I was gay to find those; they are not
common."

"No. And this is not common, to me."

"Don't you know it, aunt Caxton? It grows just it the spray of a
waterfall--this and this; they are polypodies. That is another--that
came from the old round tower."

"And where did you get these?--these waterfall ferns?"

"I got them at the Bandel of Helig."

"There? My dear child! how could you, without risk?"

"Without much risk, aunty."

"How did you ever know the Bandel?"

"I have been there before, aunt Caxton."

"I think I never shewed it to you?"

"No ma'am;--but Mr. Rhys did."

His name had scarcely been mentioned before since Eleanor had come to
the farm. It was mentioned now with a cognizance of that fact. Mrs.
Caxton was silent a little.

"Why have you put these green things here without a rose or two? they
are all alone in their greenness."

"I like them better so, aunty. They are beautiful enough by themselves;
but if you put a rose there, you cannot help looking at it."

Mrs. Caxton smiled and turned away.

One thing in the midst of all these natural explorations, remained
unused; and that a thing most likely, one would have thought, to be
applied to for help. The microscope stood on one side apparently
forgotten. It always stood there, in the sitting parlour, in full view;
but nobody seemed to be conscious of its existence. Eleanor never
touched it; Mrs. Caxton never spoke of it.

From home meantime, Eleanor heard little that was satisfactory. Julia
was the only one that wrote, and her letters gave painful subj