were not many stairs to ascend to Charlotte's bedroom, which
looked into the gardens at the back of two other houses of some
pretension, between the Vicar's Close and the Deanery.

Charlotte curled herself up in the deep window-seat, and watched her
cousin as she laid aside her large bonnet, smoothed her hair, and
arranged her white pelerine over her pelisse. Charlotte had a genuine,
if rather romantic, admiration for her cousin Joyce. Though a good girl,
she was somewhat given to sentiment and languishing, complained of being
fatigued, of headaches, and low spirits. She fed upon romance and
poetry--the poetry of albums and keepsakes, which was then
fashionable. Of course she had a hero who figured in her day-dreams; and
she would spend hours at the little window of the sitting-room to catch
a sight of him as he passed along the Close. Charlotte would have been
much better for some active employment; but Miss Falconer was getting
old and feeble in health, and if Charlotte was obedient and gentle, she
was well satisfied. So she worked covers in cross-stitch for the chairs,
knitted her own stockings, read all the light literature which came in
her way, and played on the cabinet piano which stood against the wall in
the sitting-room, with its crimson silk front gathered into the centre
by a large rosette, and displaying, when open, a very narrow keyboard
with very yellow keys.

[Illustration: The Vicar's Close, Wells.]

"How sweetly pretty you look to-day, Joyce. I can't help saying so.
Don't be angry. I want to read you some verses I have written, called,
'The Drooping Rosebud.'" And Charlotte took out of her pocket the
crumpled page of a copy-book.

"You had better not read it now, Charlotte; Aunt Letitia will expect us
to go downstairs."

"Only the first verse," Charlotte said, and then she began:

"'She bent her head in sorrow,
The pretty fragile rose;
She languished for the morrow,
Where light and gladness grows
She languished for a rain drop
To cheer her thirsty heart:
She was so sad and weary;
In joy she had no part.

'As the raindrop to the rosebud,
So is his smile to me;
As----'"

Here Charlotte stopped and blushed. "You know who I mean by the rosebud,
and who the raindrop is?"

Joyce laughed merrily.

"Oh, Charlotte, you must not come to me for sympathy. I can't understand
such sentiment. You have never spoken to Mr. Bamfylde in your life."

"_Not spoken_; no, bu