vases
always fresh and sweet.

The days were very full and happy now for Esther. She had quite a number
of duties at Moor Cottage, duties that were now left entirely to her, and
for which she was held responsible. She worked hard at her studies with
Cousin Charlotte, and she was still to some extent 'little mother' to
Poppy, so her mind and her time were very much occupied. This perhaps
made her a little blind to Penelope's distress, yet poor Penelope's
distress was very complete and apparent, for Miss Row had been away for
months, and never once in all that time had she sent a word to her little
pupil. The truth was she was so absorbed, as was her habit, in the people
and things she was amongst that she quite forgot all else.

It was Angela who felt most distressed by Penelope's trouble, and most
sympathetic; and Angela it was who, on one of her rare visits to Edless,
told the tale to Mademoiselle Leperier.

"Poor child, poor child," sighed Mademoiselle sympathetically, and asked
many questions until she drew from Angela all details, even to what
Mr. Somerset had said about her voice. "Ah!" she said. "It ought not to
be neglected, it ought not to be neglected. It will soon be too late."

She said no more then; but when Angela and Esther were leaving she sent a
message to Penelope. "Tell her to come to me to-morrow. We may be able
perhaps to do something that will fill up the waiting time."

Angela returned home in a high state of joy, which was scarcely damped by
Esther's silence during the first part of their walk, or her vexed remark,
"I do think you should know better than pour out all the family troubles
to Mademoiselle. I wonder you didn't ask her to teach--" but she stopped
before she finished what she had been going to say. "You three never go
there but what you make me wish you hadn't."

"But I haven't done anything, Esther. Mademoiselle asked how Pen was, and
when I told her she was very unhappy about something she asked me why,
and what it was, and I had to tell her; and then she just asked me all
about it, and I--I told her. I couldn't help it--could I? I couldn't
say I wouldn't."

"Penelope isn't very unhappy, nothing to make such a fuss about," grumbled
Esther. "When _I_ am unhappy no one takes any notice of me. I don't see
anything wrong with her."

"Oh, don't you? I do. She is always so quiet, not like she used to be.
She frets so about having vexed Miss Row, and not going on w