r her, Dove knew nothing
at all about--she still had that letter of Mr. Danesfield's. She had
never opened it, but she always kept it safely locked up in her trunk.
Not for worlds would she yet break the seal--no, no, this letter was
meant for an hour of great need. Primrose fondly and proudly hoped
that that dark and dreadful hour would never approach and that, having
won success, she and her sisters might yet return the letter unopened
to its kind donor. In these dark days before Christmas she kept up her
heart, and worked hard at her china-painting, achieving sufficient
success and power over her art to enable her to produce some pretty,
but, alas! as yet unsaleable articles. Mr. Jones, her master, assured
her, however, that her goods must ere long find a market, and she
struggled on bravely.

Perhaps, on the whole, Jasmine was more tried by her present life than
her sister. Jasmine's was a more highly-strung temperament; she could
be more easily depressed and more easily elated--hers was the kind of
nature which pours forth its sweetest and best in sunshine; did the
cold blasts of adversity blow too keenly on this rather tropical
little flower, then no expansion would come to the beautiful blossoms,
and the young life would fail to fulfil its promise. Jasmine was never
meant by nature to be poor; she had been born in Italy, and something
of the languor and the love of ease and beauty of her birthplace
seemed always to linger round her. She had talents--under certain
conditions she might even have developed genius, but in no sense of
the word was she hardy; where Primrose could endure, and even conquer,
Jasmine might die.

The little sister, who was too young to acutely feel any change which
did not part her from Primrose and Jasmine, was, perhaps, the only one
of the three whose spirits were on a par with what they were in the
old Rosebury days; but although Daisy's little mind remained tranquil,
and she did not trouble herself about ways and means, nor greatly fret
over the fact that the skies were leaden, and the attic room foggy,
still Daisy also suffered in her rather delicate little body. She
caught cold in the London fogs, and the cold brought on a cough, and
the cough produced loss of appetite. The two elder sisters, however,
were scarcely as yet uneasy about her, and it was only Miss Egerton
who saw the likeness to little Constance growing and growing in
Daisy's sweet face. Thus Christmas drew near, and th