aiding and arranging her dark glossy hair, that luxuriant
ornament of her bright, rosy face; then she put on the blossom white
lace habit-shirt and striped pink and drab silk dress, her kind father's
last gift, and the smart shawl and pink bonnet were duly arranged
afterwards. Whatever the early visit Netta was about to make, it was
evidently a premeditated one. When the attire was quite complete, and
she had surveyed herself in the glass, she suddenly paused and looked
around her. In a moment she was putting her room to rights, and pushing
stray articles of dress into drawers, until all was quite neat; then she
paused again, and glanced at a letter that was lying on her little
dressing-table. Turning hastily away from this she opened the window and
looked out. The sun had not yet arisen, though there was a streak of
light, forerunner of his advent, on the horizon. Mountains, rivers,
fields, and woods were all wrapped in a cold, grey mist, but still it
was not dark. Netta tore the bunch of roses from the bough and put them
in her bosom, then re-closed the window. She took up a large shawl that
was lying on a chair, and a small package from underneath and
dexterously arranged the shawl so as to fall over the parcel, as she
held both in her hand and on her arm. Again she paused a moment and
glanced around her. Her face was flushed, and there was moisture in her
dark eye.

Oh, pause a little longer and consider, poor Netta! But no. The sudden
flash of sunlight into the room terrifies the thoughtless child, and she
goes hastily into the passage. Quietly she closes her door; stealthily
she creeps along. She makes no sound as she steals, like a thief,
through the house where she was born some eighteen summers ago. Before
one closed door she pauses again--listens. She can hear the breath of
the sleepers within. She is on her knees, and represses with difficulty
a rising sob, 'Mother! mother! forgive me! God bless you!' she whispers,
as she once more rises and runs down the remainder of the
passage--downstairs--through the hall--through the parlour, and out by
the little glass door into the garden. In spite of her tears, haste,
agitation she cannot pass that bed of carnations--her mother's
treasure--without stopping to gather one fresh and dripping with the air
and dews of night. Innocent flowers! they will see her mother that very
day; but what of the stray, wandering rose of Glanyravon? Through the
garden, and out by the litt