"Heav'n bless thee;
Thou hast the sweetest face I ever look'd on."
SHAKESPEARE.
One of the greatest of Fleda's pleasures was when Mr. Carleton
came to take her out with him. He did that often. Fleda only
wished he would have taken Hugh too, but somehow he never did.
Nothing but that was wanting to make the pleasure of those
times perfect. Knowing that she saw the _common things_ in other
company, Guy was at the pains to vary the amusement when she
went with him. Instead of going to Versailles or St. Cloud, he
would take her long delightful drives into the country, and
show her some old or interesting place that nobody else went
to see. Often there was a history belonging to the spot, which
Fleda listened to with the delight of eye and fancy at once.
In the city, where they more frequently walked, still he
showed her what she would perhaps have seen under no other
guidance. He made it his business to give her pleasure; and
understanding the inquisitive active little spirit he had to
do with, he went where his own tastes would hardly have led
him. The Quai aux Fleurs was often visited, but also the Halle
aux Blés, the great Halle aux Vins, the Jardin des Plantes,
and the Marché des Innocens. Guy even took the trouble, more
for her sake than his own, to go to the latter place once very
early in the morning, when the market bell had not two hours
sounded, while the interest and prettiness of the scene were
yet in their full life. Hugh was in company this time, and the
delight of both children was beyond words, as it would have
been beyond anybody's patience, that had not a strong motive
to back it. They never discovered that Mr. Carleton was in a
hurry, as indeed he was not. They bargained for fruit with any
number of people, upon all sorts of inducements, and to an
extent of which they had no competent notion; but Hugh had his
mother's purse, and Fleda was skilfully commissioned to
purchase what she pleased for Mrs. Carleton. Verily the two
children that morning bought pleasure, not peaches. Fancy and
Benevolence held the purse-strings, and Economy did not even
look on. They revelled too, Fleda especially, amidst the
bright pictures of the odd, the new, and the picturesque, and
the varieties of character and incident that were displayed
around them, even till the country people began to go away,
and the scene to lose its charm. It never lost it in memory;
and many a time in after life, Hugh and Fleda recurred to
something that was seen or done "that morning when we bought
fruit at the Innocens."
Besides these scenes of everyday life, which interested and
amused Fleda to the last degree, Mr. Carleton showed her many
an obscure part of Paris, where deeds of daring and of blood
had been, and thrilled the little listener's ear with
histories of the past. He judged her rightly. She would rather
at any time have gone to walk with him than with anybody else
to see any show that could be devised. His object in all this
was, in the first place, to give her pleasure; and, in the
second place, to draw out her mind into free communion with
his own, which he knew could only be done by talking sense to
her. He succeeded as he wished. Lost in the interest of the
scenes he presented to her eye and mind, she forgot everything
else, and showed him herself precisely what he wanted to
see.
It was strange that a young man, an admired man of fashion, a
flattered favourite of the gay and great world, and,
furthermore, a reserved and proud repeller of almost all who
sought his intimacy, should seek and delight in the society of
a little child. His mother would have wondered if she had
known it. Mrs. Rossitur did marvel that even Fleda should have
so won upon the cold and haughty young Englishman; and her
husband said he probably chose to have Fleda with him because
he could make up his mind to like nobody else; a remark which
perhaps arose from the utter failure of every attempt to draw
him and Charlton nearer together. But Mr. Rossitur was only
half right. The reason lay deeper.
Mr. Carleton had admitted the truth of Christianity, upon what
he considered sufficient grounds, and would now have steadily
fought for it, as he would for anything else that he believed
to be truth. But there he stopped. He had not discovered, nor
tried to discover, whether the truth of Christianity imposed
any obligation upon him. He had cast off his unbelief, and
looked upon it now as a singular folly. But his belief was
almost as vague and as fruitless as his infidelity had been.
Perhaps, a little, his bitter dissatisfaction with the world
and human things, or rather his despondent view of them, was
mitigated. If there was, as he now held, a Supreme Orderer of
events, it might be, and it was rational to suppose there
would be, in the issues of time, an entire change wrought in
the disordered and dishonoured state of his handiwork. There
might be a remedial system somewhere nay, it might be in the
Bible, he meant to look some day. But that _he_ had anything
to do with that change; that the working of the remedial
system called for hands; that _his_ had any charge in the
matter, had never entered into his imagination nor stirred his
conscience. He was living his old life at Paris, with his old
dissatisfaction perhaps a trifle less bitter. He was seeking
pleasure in whatever art, learning, literature, refinement,
and luxury can do for a man who has them all at command; but
there was something within him that spurned this ignoble
existence, and called for higher aims and worthier exertion.
He was not vicious, he never had been vicious, or, as somebody
else said, his vices were all refined vices; but a life of
mere self-indulgence, although pursued without self-
satisfaction, is constantly lowering the standard and
weakening the forces of virtue lessening the whole man. He
felt it so; and to leave his ordinary scenes and occupations,
and lose a morning with little Fleda, was a freshening of his
better nature; it was like breathing pure air after the fever-
heat of a sick-room; it was like hearing the birds sing after
the meaningless jabber of Bedlam. Mr. Carleton, indeed, did
not put the matter quite so strongly to himself. He called
Fleda his good angel. He did not exactly know that the office
this good angel performed was simply to hold a candle to his
conscience; for conscience was not by any means dead in him,
it only wanted light to see by. When he turned from the gay
and corrupt world in which he lived, where the changes were
rung incessantly upon self-interest, falsehood, pride, and the
various, more or less refined forms of sensuality; and when he
looked upon that pure bright little face, so free from
selfishness, those clear eyes so innocent of evil, the
peaceful brow under which a thought of double-dealing had
never hid, Mr. Carleton felt himself in a healthier region.
Here, as elsewhere, he honoured and loved the image of truth,
in the broad sense of truth, that which suits the perfect
standard of right. But his pleasure in this case was
invariably mixed with a slight feeling of self-reproach; and
it was this hardly recognised stir of his better nature, this
clearing of his mental eyesight under the light of a bright
example, that made him call the little torch-bearer his good
angel. If this were truth, this purity, uprightness, and
singleness of mind, as conscience said it was, where was he?
how far wandering from his beloved idol?
One other feeling saddened the pleasure he had in her society,
a belief that the ground of it could not last. "If she could
grow up so!" he said to himself. "But it is impossible. A very
few years, and all that clear sunshine of the mind will be
overcast, there is not a cloud now!"
Under the working of these thoughts, Mr. Carleton sometimes
forgot to talk to his little charge, and would walk for a
length of way by her side, wrapped up in sombre musings. Fleda
never disturbed him then, but waited contentedly and patiently
for him to come out of them, with her old feeling, wondering
what he could be thinking of, and wishing he were as happy as
she. But he never left her very long. He was sure to wave his
own humour and give her all the graceful kind attention which
nobody else could bestow so well. Nobody understood and
appreciated it better than Fleda.
One day, some months after they had been in Paris, they were
sitting in the Place de la Concorde. Mr. Carleton was in one
of these thinking fits. He had been giving Fleda a long detail
of the scenes that had taken place in that spot; a history of
it from the time when it had lain an unsightly waste, such a
graphic lively account as he knew well how to give. The
absorbed interest with which she had lost everything else in
what he was saying, had given him at once reward and motive
enough as he went on. Standing by his side, with one little
hand confidingly resting on his knee, she gazed alternately
into his face and towards the broad highly-adorned square by
the side of which they had placed themselves, and where it was
hard to realize that the ground had once been soaked in blood,
while madness and death filled the air; and her changing face,
like a mirror, gave him back the reflection of the times he
held up to her view. And still standing there in the same
attitude after he had done, she had been looking out towards
the square in a fit of deep meditation. Mr. Carleton had
forgotten her for a while in his own thoughts, and then the
sight of the little gloved hand upon his knee brought him back
again.
"What are you musing about, Elfie, dear?" he said, cheerfully,
taking the hand in one of his.
Fleda gave a swift glance into his face, as if to see whether
it would be safe for her to answer his question, a kind of
exploring look, in which her eyes often acted as scouts for
her tongue. Those she met pledged their faith for her
security; yet Fleda's look went back to the square and then
again to his face in silence.
"How do you like living in Paris?" said he. "You should know
by this time."
"I like it very much indeed," said Fleda.
"I thought you would."
"I like Queechy better, though," she went on, gravely, her
eyes turning again to the square.
"Like Queechy better! Were you thinking of Queechy just now
when I spoke to you?"
"O no!" with a smile.
"Were you going over all those horrors I have been distressing
you with?"
"No," said Fleda; "I was thinking of them, a while ago."
"What then?" said he pleasantly. "You were looking so sober, I
should like to know how near your thoughts were to mine."
"I was thinking," said Fleda, gravely, and a little
unwillingly, but Guy's manner was not to be withstood "I was
wishing I could be like the disciple whom Jesus loved."
Mr. Carleton let her see none of the surprise he felt at this
answer.
"Was there one more loved than the rest?"
"Yes the Bible calls him 'the disciple whom Jesus loved.'
That was John."
"Why was he preferred above the others?"
"I don't know. I suppose he was more gentle and good than the
others, and loved Jesus more. I think Aunt Miriam said so when
I asked her once."
Mr. Carleton thought Fleda had not far to seek for the
fulfilment of her wish.
"But how in the world, Elfie, did you work round to this
gentle and good disciple from those scenes of blood you set
out with?"
"Why," said Elfie, "I was thinking how unhappy and bad people
are, especially people here, I think; and how much must be
done before they will all be brought right; and then I was
thinking of the work Jesus gave his disciples to do; and so I
wished I could be like that disciple. Hugh and I were talking
about it this morning."
"What is the work he gave them to do?'" said Mr. Carleton,
more and more interested.
"Why," said Fleda, lifting her gentle wistful eyes to his, and
then looking away, "to bring everybody to be good and happy."
"And how in the world are they to do that?" said Mr. Carleton,
astonished to see his own problem quietly handled by this
child.
"By telling them about Jesus Christ, and getting them to
believe and love him," said Fleda, glancing at him again, "and
living so beautifully that people cannot help believing them."
"That last is an important clause," said Mr. Carleton,
thoughtfully. "But suppose people will not hear when they are
spoken to, Elfie?"
"Some will, at any rate," said Fleda, "and by and by everybody
will."
"How do you know?"
"Because the Bible says so."
"Are you sure of that, Elfie?"
"Why, yes, Mr. Carleton, God has promised that the world
shall be full of good people, and then they will be all happy.
_I_ wish it was now."
"But if that be so, Elfie, God can make them all good without
our help."
"Yes, but I suppose he wishes to do it with our help, Mr.
Carleton," said Fleda, with equal naïveté and gravity.
"But is not this you speak of," said he, half smiling, "rather
the business of clergymen? you have nothing to do with it?"
"No," said Fleda, "everybody has something to do with it the
Bible says so; ministers must do it in their way, and other
people in other ways; everybody has his own work. Don't you
remember the parable of the ten talents, Mr. Carleton?"
Mr. Carleton was silent for a minute.
"I do not know the Bible quite as well as you do, Elfie," he
said then, "nor as I ought to do."
Elfie's only answer was by a look somewhat like that he well
remembered on shipboard he had thought was angel-like, a
look of gentle sorrowful wistfulness, which she did not
venture to put into words. It had not for that the less power.
But he did not choose to prolong the conversation. They rose
up and began to walk homeward, Elfie thinking with all the
warmth of her little heart that she wished very much Mr.
Carleton knew the Bible better; divided between him and "that
disciple" whom she and Hugh had been talking about.
"I suppose you are very busy now, Elfie," observed her
companion, when they had walked the length of several squares
in silence.
"O yes!" said Fleda. " Hugh and I are as busy as we can be. We
are busy every minute."
"Except when you are on some chase after pleasure?"
"Well," said Fleda, laughing, "that is a kind of business; and
all the business is pleasure too. I didn't mean that we were
always busy about work. Oh, Mr. Carleton, we had such a nice
time the day before yesterday!" And she went on to give him
the history of a very successful chase after pleasure which
they had made to St. Cloud.
"And yet you like Queechy better?"
"Yes," said Fleda, with a gentle steadiness peculiar to
herself "if I had aunt Lucy, and Hugh, and uncle Rolf there,
and everybody that I care for, I should like it a great deal
better."
" 'Unspotted' yet," he thought.
"Mr. Carleton," said Fleda, presently "do you play and sing
every day here in Paris?"
"Yes," said he, smiling, "about every day. Why?"
"I was thinking how pleasant it was at your house in England."
"Has Carleton the honour of rivalling Queechy in your liking?"
"I haven't lived there so long, you know," said Fleda, "I dare
say it would if I had. I think it is quite as pretty a place."
Mr. Carleton smiled with a very pleased expression. Truth and
politeness had joined hands in her answer with a child's
grace.
He brought Fleda to her own door, and there was leaving her.
"Stop! Oh, Mr. Carleton," cried Fleda, "come in, just for one
minute I want to show you something."
He made no resistance to that. She led him to the saloon,
where it happened that nobody was, and repeating, "One
minute!" rushed out of the room. In less than that time, she
came running back with a beautiful half-blown bud of a monthly
rose in her hand, and in her face such a bloom of pleasure and
eagerness as more than rivalled it. The rose was fairly
eclipsed. She put the bud quietly, but with a most satisfied
air of affection, into Mr. Carleton's hand. It had come from a
little tree which he had given her on one of' their first
visits to the Quai aux Fleurs. She had had the choice of what
she liked best, and had characteristically taken a flourishing
little rose-bush, that as yet showed nothing but leaves and
green buds, partly, because she would have the pleasure of
seeing its beauties come forward, and partly, because she
thought having no flowers, it would not cost much. The former
reason, however, was all that she had given to Mr. Carleton's
remonstrances.
"What is all this, Elfie?" said he. "Have you been robbing
your rose-tree?"
"No," said Elfie, "there are plenty more buds! Isn't it
lovely? This is the first one. They've been a great while
coming out."
His eye went from the rose to her; he thought the one was a
mere emblem of the other. Fleda was usually very quiet in her
demonstrations; it was as if a little green bud had suddenly
burst into a flush of loveliness; and he saw, it was as plain
as possible, that goodwill to him had been the moving power.
He was so much struck and moved, that his thanks, though as
usual perfect in their kind, were far shorter and graver than
he would have given if he had felt less. He turned away from
the house, his mind full of the bright unsullied purity and
single-hearted goodwill that had looked out of that beaming
little face; he seemed to see them again in the flower he held
in his hand, and he saw nothing else as he went.
Mr. Carleton preached to himself all the way home, and his
text was a rose.
Laugh who will. To many it may seem ridiculous; and to most
minds it would have been impossible; but to a nature very
finely wrought and highly trained, many a voice that grosser
senses cannot hear, comes with an utterance as clear as it is
sweet-spoken; many a touch that coarser nerves cannot heed,
reaches the springs of the deeper life; many a truth that
duller eyes have no skill to see, shows its fair features, hid
away among the petals of a rose, or peering out between the
wings of a butterfly, or reflected in a bright drop of dew.
The material is but a veil for the spiritual; but, then, eyes
must be quickened, or the veil becomes an impassable cloud.
That particular rose was to Mr. Carleton's eye a most perfect
emblem and representative of its little giver. He traced out
the points of resemblance as he went along. The delicacy and
character of refinement for which that kind of rose is
remarkable above many of its more superb kindred; a refinement
essential and unalterable by decay or otherwise, as true a
characteristic of the child as of the flower; a delicacy that
called for gentle handling and tender cherishing; the
sweetness, rare indeed, but asserting itself as it were
timidly, at least with equally rare modesty; the very style of
the beauty that, with all its loveliness, would not startle
nor even catch the eye among its more showy neighbours; and
the breath of purity that seemed to own no kindred with earth,
nor liability to infection.
As he went on with his musing, and drawing out this fair
character from the type before him, the feeling of contrast
that he had known before pressed upon Mr. Carleton's mind; the
feeling of self-reproach, and the bitter wish that he could be
again what he once had been something like this. How changed
now he seemed to himself not a point of likeness left. How
much less honourable, how much less worth, how much less
dignified, than that fair innocent child! How much better a
part she was acting in life what an influence she was
exerting, as pure, as sweet-breathed, and as unobtrusive, as
the very rose in his hand! And he doing no good to an
earthly creature, and losing himself by inches.
He reached his room, put the flower in a glass on the table,
and walked up and down before it. It had come to a struggle
between the sense of what was and the passionate wish for what
might have been.
"It is late, Sir," said his servant, opening the door "and
you were "
"I am not going out."
"This evening, Sir?"
"No not at all to-day. Spenser, I don't wish to see anybody
let no one come near me."
The servant retired, and Guy went on with his walk and his
meditations looking back over his life, and reviewing, with
a wiser ken now, the steps by which he had come. He compared
the selfish disgust with which he had cast off the world with
the very different spirit of little Fleda's look upon it that
morning; the useless, self-pleasing, vain life he was leading,
with her wish to be like the beloved disciple, and do
something to heal the troubles of those less happy than
herself. He did not very well comprehend the grounds of her
feeling or reasoning, but he began to see, mistily, that his
own had been mistaken and wild.
His step grew slower, his eye more intent, his brow quiet.
"She is right, and I am wrong," he thought. "She is by far the
nobler creature worth many such as I. Like her I cannot be
I cannot regain what I have lost I cannot undo what years
have done. But I can be something other than I am! If there be
a system of remedy, as there well may, it may as well take
effect on myself first. She says everybody has his work; I
believe her. It must, in the nature of things, be so. I will
make it my business to find out what mine is; and when I have
made that sure, I will give myself to the doing of it. An All-
wise Governor must look for service of me. He shall have it.
Whatever my life be, it shall be to some end. If not what I
would, what I can. If not the purity of the rose, that of
tempered steel!"
Mr. Carleton walked his room for three hours; then rung for
his servant, and ordered him to prepare everything for leaving
Paris the second day thereafter.
The next morning over theirs coffee he told his mother of his
purpose.
"Leave Paris! To-morrow! My dear Guy, that is rather a sudden
notice."
"No, mother; for I am going alone."
His mother immediately bent an anxious and somewhat terrified
look upon him. The frank smile she met put half her suspicions
out of her head at once.
"What is the matter?"
"Nothing at all if by 'matter' you mean mischief."
"You are not in difficulty with those young men again?"
"No, mother," said he, coolly. "I am in difficulty with no one
but myself."
"With yourself! But why will you not let me go with you?"
"My business will go on better if I am quite alone."
"What business?''
"Only to settle this question with myself," said he, smiling.
"But, Guy! you are enigmatical this morning. Is it the
question that of all others I wish to see settled?"
"No, mother," said he, laughing, and colouring a little; "I
don't want another half to take care of till I have this one
under management."
"I don't understand you," said Mrs. Carleton. "There is no
hidden reason under all this that you are keeping from me?"
"I wont say that. But there is none that need give you the
least uneasiness. There are one or two matters I want to study
out; I cannot do it here, so I am going where I shall be
free."
"Where?"
"I think I shall pass the summer between Switzerland and
Germany."
"And when and where shall I meet you again?"
"I think, at home; I cannot say when."
"At home!" said his mother with a brightening face. "Then you
are beginning to be tired of wandering at last?"
"Not precisely, mother," rather out of humour.
"I shall be glad of anything," said his mother, gazing at him
admiringly, "that brings you home again, Guy."
"Brings me home a better man, I hope, mother," said he,
kissing her as he left the room. "I will see you again by and
by."
" 'A better man!' " thought Mrs. Carleton, as she sat with
full eyes, the image of her son filling the place where his
presence had been; "I would be willing never to see him
better, and be sure of his never being worse."
Mr. Carleton's farewell visit found Mr. and Mrs. Rossitur not
at home. They had driven out early into the country to fetch
Marion from her convent for some holiday. Fleda came alone
into the saloon to receive him.
"I have your rose in safe keeping, Elfie," he said. "It has
done me more good than ever a rose did before."
Fleda smiled an innocently pleased smile. But her look changed
when he added
"I have come to tell you so, and to bid you good-bye."
"Are you going away, Mr. Carleton?"
"Yes."
"But you will be back soon?"
"No, Elfie I do not know that I shall ever come back."
He spoke gravely, more gravely than he was used, and Fleda's
acuteness saw that there was some solid reason for this sudden
determination. Her face changed sadly, but she was silent, her
eyes never wavering from those that read hers with such gentle
intelligence.
"You will be satisfied to have me go, Elfie, when I tell you
that I am going on business which I believe to be duty.
Nothing else takes me away. I am going to try to do right,"
said he, smiling.
Elfie could not answer the smile. She wanted to ask whether
she should never see him again, and there was another thought
upon her tongue too; but her lip trembled, and she said
nothing.
"I shall miss my good fairy," Mr. Carleton went on, lightly;
"I don't know how I shall do without her. If your wand was
long enough to reach so far I would ask you to touch me now
and then, Elfie."
Poor Elfie could not stand it. Heir head sank. She knew she
had a wand that could touch him, and well and gratefully she
resolved that its light blessing should "now and then" rest on
his head; but he did not understand that; he was talking,
whether lightly or seriously and Elfie knew it was a little
of both he was talking of wanting her help, and was ignorant
of the help that alone could avail him. "O that he knew but
that!" What with this feeling and sorrow together, the child's
distress was exceeding great; and the tokens of grief in one
so accustomed to hide them were the more painful to see. Mr.
Carleton drew the sorrowing little creature within his arm,
and endeavoured with a mixture of kindness and lightness in
his tone to cheer her.
"I shall often remember you, dear Elfie," he said; "I shall
keep your rose always, and take it with me wherever I go. You
must not make it too hard for me to quit Paris you are glad
to have me go on such an errand, are you not?"
She presently commanded herself, bade her tears wait till
another time as usual, and trying to get rid of those that
covered her face, asked him "What errand?"
He hesitated.
"I have been thinking of what we were talking of yesterday,
Elfie," he said at length. "I am going to try to discover my
duty, and then to do it."
But Fleda at that clasped his hand, and squeezing it in both
hers, bent down her little head over it to hide her face and
the tears that streamed again. He hardly knew how to
understand, or what to say to her. He half suspected that
there were depths in that childish mind beyond his fathoming.
He was not, however, left to wait long. Fleda, though she
might now and then be surprised into showing it, never allowed
her sorrow of any kind to press upon the notice or the time of
others. She again checked herself and dried her face.
"There is nobody else in Paris that will be so sorry for my
leaving it," said Mr. Carleton, half tenderly and half
pleasantly.
"There is nobody else that has so much cause," said Elfie,
near bursting out again, but she restrained herself.
"And you will not come here again;, Mr. Carleton?" she said,
after a few minutes.
"I do not say that it is possible if I do, it will be to
see you, Elfie."
A shadow of a smile passed over her face at that. It was gone
instantly.
"My mother will not leave Paris yet," he went on you will
see her often."
But he saw that Fleda was thinking of something else; she
scarce seemed to hear him. She was thinking of something that
troubled her.
"Mr. Carleton," she began, and her colour changed.
"Speak, Elfie."
Her colour changed again. "Mr. Carleton, will you be
displeased if I say something?"
"Don't you know me better than to ask me that, Elfie?" he
said, gently.
"I want to ask you something if you wont mind my saying it?"
"What is it?" said he, reading in her face that a request was
behind. "I will do it."
Her eyes sparkled, but she seemed to have some difficulty in
going on.
"I will do it whatever it is," he said, watching her.
"Will you wait for me one moment, Mr. Carleton?"
"Half an hour."
She sprang away, her face absolutely flashing pleasure through
her tears. It was much soberer, and again doubtful and
changing colour, when a few minutes afterwards she came back
with a book in her hand. With a striking mixture of timidity,
modesty, and eagerness in her countenance, she came forward,
and putting the little volume, which was her own Bible, into
Mr. Carleton's hands, said, under her breath, "Please read
it." She did not venture to look up.
He saw what the book was; and then taking the gentle hand
which had given it, he kissed it two or three times if it
had been a princess's he could not with more respect.
"You have my promise, Elfie," he said; "I need not repeat it."
She raised her eves and gave him a look so grateful, so
loving, so happy, that it dwelt for ever in his remembrance. A
moment after it had faded, and she stood still where he had
left her listening to his footsteps as they went down the
stairs. She heard the last of them, and then sank upon her
knees by a chair, and burst into a passion of tears. Their
time was now, and she let them come. It was not only the
losing a loved and pleasant friend, it was not only the
stirring of sudden and disagreeable excitement poor Elfie
was crying for her Bible. It had been her father's own it
was filled with his marks it was precious to her above price
and Elfie cried with all her heart for the loss of it. She
had done what she had on the spur of the emergency she was
satisfied she had done right; she would not take it back if
she could; but not the less her Bible was gone, and the pages
that loved eyes had looked upon were for hers to look upon no
more. Her very heart was wrung that she should have parted
with it; and yet, what could she do? It was as bad as the
parting with Mr. Carleton.
That agony was over, and even that was shortened, for "Hugh
would find out that she had been crying." Hours had passed,
and the tears were dried, and the little face was bending over
the wonted tasks, with a shadow upon its wonted cheerfulness,
when Rosaline came to tell her that Victor said there was
somebody in the passage who wanted to see her and would not
come in.
It was Mr. Carleton himself. He gave her a parcel, smiled at
her without saying a word, kissed her hand earnestly, and was
gone again. Fleda ran to her own room, and took the wrappers
off such a beauty of a Bible as she had never seen bound in
blue velvet, with clasps of gold, and her initials in letters
of gold upon the cover. Fleda hardly knew whether to be most
pleased or sorry; for to have its place so supplied seemed to
put her lost treasure further away than ever. The result was
another flood of very tender tears; in the very shedding of
which, however, the new little Bible was bound to her heart
with cords of association as bright and as incorruptible as
its gold mountings.