she had a governess in these days, and had perhaps been
taught one of the first lessons that young girls learn--to shrink from
every man who is neither her father nor her brother nor her grandfather.
Accordingly, during all that Christmas week I rarely heard the sound of
her voice.

Mr. Floyd had joined us a few hours after we reached The Headlands. The
three years had made more change in him than in any of the rest of us,
if I except myself. He had grown older--was more quiet and languid, and
more tender in his manner. I had often wondered of late, now that I was
strong again and in a measure launched into life, whether he and my
mother would marry. I saw many meanings in my mother's beautiful face of
which she never spoke to me; the two had long talks together every day,
and their manner to each other held all the sweetness of steadfast
affection and true sympathy; yet there was a nameless something which
was never in his tones now.

It was a lovely, quiet Christmas-time. Outside, the winter seas roared
and great masses of ice covered the rocks and bound the shore: heavy
snows fell and the winds whistled cold. But inside, everything went on
in a still, blessed fashion that only comes when people love one
another, and in a stately, comfortable fashion that is only at command
in rich houses where all stores of state and comfort are opened with a
golden key. The greenhouses were in their perfection now: there were
many of them of various temperatures, but all opening from one into the
other. Mr. Floyd and I were walking one day where the oranges, lemons
and cedrats were ripening in different degrees of maturity: they seemed
to blossom and yield as freely as if in their native climates, and our
favorite walk was there these chilly winter afternoons; for Mr. Floyd,
always a shiverer, of late found every place except the tropical
atmosphere of a greenhouse too cold for him. My mother had been with us
picking a few orange-blossoms. My guardian had taken one little spray
and put it against her hair, sighing meanwhile, although he was smiling.

"No orange-blossoms for my white hair," said she, laughing and flushing.
"They are for the dark curls of a young girl."

"Oh, youth! youth! youth!" he exclaimed half bitterly.

"Dear friend," said she very calmly and sweetly, "youth is only so
beautiful when we have lost it. Middle life is stronger, pleasanter,
nobler."

"I might cry for middle life too," Mr. Floyd said lightly, "