have brought you one of my pets, my dear," said she. "I think we
both love flowers."

The little old lady had come to tea. This was charming. She took off
her bonnet, and her cap more than fulfilled Ida's expectations,
although it was nothing smarter than a soft mass of tulle, tied with
white satin strings. But what a face looked out of it! Mrs.
Overtheway's features were almost perfect. The beauty of her eyes was
rather enhanced by the blue shadows that Time had painted round them,
and they were those good eyes which remind one of a clear well, at the
bottom of which he might see truth. When young she must have been
exquisitely beautiful, Ida thought. She was lovely still.

In due time Nurse brought up tea, and Ida could hardly believe that
her fancies were realized at last; indeed more than realized--for no
bread and treacle diminished the dignity of the entertainment; and
Nurse would as soon have thought of carrying off the Great Mogul on
his cushions, as of putting Mrs. Overtheway and her chair into the
corner.

But there is a limit even to the space of time for which one can
enjoy tea and buttered toast. The tray was carried off, the hyacinth
put in its place, and Ida curled herself up in an easy chair on one
side of the fire, Mrs. Overtheway being opposite.

"You see I am over the way still," laughed the little old lady. "Now,
tell me all about the primroses." So Ida told everything, and
apologized for her awkward speeches to the housekeeper.

"I don't know your name yet," said she.

"Call me Mrs. Overtheway still, my dear, if you please," said the
little old lady. "I like it."

So Ida was no wiser on this score.

"I was so sorry to hear that you had been made ill on my account,"
said Mrs. Overtheway. "I have been many times to ask after you, and
to-night I asked leave to come to tea. I wish I could do something to
amuse you, you poor little invalid. I know you must feel dull."

Ida's cheeks flushed.

"If you would only tell me a story," she said, "I do so like hearing
Nurse's stories. At least she has only one, but I like it. It isn't
exactly a story either, but it is about what happened in her last
place. But I am rather tired of it. There's Master Henry--I like him
very much, he was always in mischief; and there's Miss Adelaide, whose
hair curled naturally--at least with a damp brush--I like her; but I
don't have much of them; for Nurse generally goes off about a quarrel
she had with the cook, and