understand it. I am living a life of ease and
uselessness, and with his higher aims and nobler purposes, he shrinks
from the frivolities among which I am cast. I saw his saddened
countenance among our gaieties, and I know that to deep minds there is
heaviness in the midst of display. He withdraws from the follies that
have no charms for him, and I--ought I to be able to help being amused?
I don't seek these things, but, perhaps, I ought to avoid them more than
I do. If I could be quite clear what is right, I should not care what
effort I made. But I was born to be one of those who have trial of
riches, and such blessed tasks are not my portion. But if he sees the
vanities creeping into my heart, I should be grateful for that warning."

So meditated Meta, as she copied one of her own drawings of the Grange,
for her dear old governess, Mrs. Larpent, while each line and tint
recalled the comments of her fond amateur father, and the scenery
carried her home, in spite of the street sounds, and the scratching of
Flora's pen, coursing over note-paper. Presently Sir Henry Walkinghame
called, bringing a beautiful bouquet.

"Delicious," cried Meta. "See, Flora, it is in good time, for those
vases were sadly shabby."

She began at once to arrange the flowers, a task that seemed what she
was born for, and the choice roses and geraniums acquired fresh grace
as she placed them in the slender glasses and classic vases; but
Flora's discerning eyes perceived some mortification on the part of
the gentleman, and, on his departure, playfully reproached Meta for
ingratitude.

"Did we not thank him? I thought I did them all due honour, actually
using the Dresden bowl."

"You little wretch! quite insensible to the sentiment of the thing."

"Sentiment! One would think you had been reading about the language of
flowers!"

"Whatever there was, poor Sir Henry did not mean it for the Dresden bowl
or Bohemian glass."

"Flora! do pray tell me whether you are in fun?"

"You ridiculous child!" said Flora, kissing her earnest forehead,
ringing the bell, and gathering up her papers, as she walked out of the
room, and gave her notes to the servant.

"What does she mean? Is it play? Oh, no, a hint would be far more like
her. But I hope it is nonsense. He is very kind and pleasant, and I
should not know what to do."

Instances of his complaisance towards herself rose before her, so as to
excite some warmth and gratitude. Her lonely heart thr