that I
like the thing, but I won't have it said as a message, or that I take it
as his present."

"Very well," said Flora, "the whole affair is simple enough, if you
would not be so conscious, my dear."

"Flora, I can't stand your calling me my dear!"

"I am very much obliged to you," said Flora, laughing, more than she
would have liked to be seen, but recalled by her sister's look. Ethel
was sorry at once.

"Flora, I beg your pardon; I did not mean to be cross, only please don't
begin about that; indeed, I think you had better leave out about the
brooch altogether. No one will wonder at your passing it over in such a
return as this."

"You are right," said Flora thoughtfully.

Ethel carried the brooch to her own room, and tried to keep herself
from speculating what had been Mr. Ogllvie's views in procuring it, and
whether he remembered showing her, at Woodstock, which sort of fern was
his badge, and how she had abstained from preserving the piece shut up
in her guide-book.

Meta's patient sorrow was the best remedy for proneness to such musings.
How happy poor little Meta had been! The three sisters sat together that
long day, and Ethel read to the others, and by and by went to walk in
the garden with them, till, as Flora was going in, Meta asked, "Do you
think it would be wrong for me to cross the park to see that little
burned girl, as Mr. Wilmot is away to-day, and she has no one to go to
her?"

Flora could see no reason against it, and Meta and Ethel left the
garden, and traversed the green park, in its quiet home beauty, not
talking much, except that Meta said, "Well! I think there is quite as
much sweetness as sadness in this evening."

"Because of this calm autumn sunset beauty?" said Ethel. "Look at the
golden light coming in under the branches of the trees."

"Yes," said Meta, "one cannot help thinking how much more beautiful it
must be--"

The two girls said no more, and came to the cottage, where so much
gratitude was expressed at seeing Miss Rivers, that it was almost too
much for her. She left Ethel to talk, and only said a few soft little
words to her sick scholar, who seemed to want her voice and smile to
convince her that the small mournful face, under all that black crape,
belonged to her own dear bright teacher.

"It is odd," said Meta, as they went back; "it is seeing other people
that makes one know it is all sad and altered--it seems so bewildering,
though they are so kind."

"I