been in London, Paris, and half a dozen other
capitals, a complete success; her peculiar charm
was the ease with which she allowed herself
to be amused.  It was all one to her, London
or Staffordshire.  She would frame her little
aristocratic face in the window of a carriage,
in the drive of Hyde Park, calmly returning the
gaze of the multitude; she would ride in the
"Row," her delicate profile set off by her fashionable
hat; or here, in the country, she would
gather up the skirts of all her pretty morning
dresses, and race about the lanes like a child.
So strangely adaptable!

To my father she talks pictures, and to
Bernard—but Bernard does not praise her now
to poor jealous little me.

So things go on, and I do not like her in the
least, and I say hasty rude things, and repent
and am sorry, and, in fact, am Maggie all over.
Florence, being sweet-tempered herself, does
not know I am not sweet-tempered, and joins in
our walks with a quiet persistence and an absence
of tact that render politeness on my part an
impracticable theory.  Every time she tacks
herself on to us, I mount swiftly up to a white
heat of impatience.

All of no use.  I seem to hear Bernard saying:
"We cannot leave her alone, Maggie; you
would not leave the poor little girl alone?"
And I feel he is right, and I clench my teeth
hard, and walk along silent, until the tones
of my voice are pitched to my liking.

At length, however, things take one turn too
many.  "There are limits to everything," I
inform myself, as I stand at one of the pretty
French windows that open on our lawn,
brilliantly green after the rain. That lawn was a
picture—red with geraniums in white stone
baskets, and overflowing with beauty.  In
the centre, a fine old oak threw dark shadows
on the ground; and there, in the shade, hidden
away from the sun's hot glare, sat Florence
Burnand—and my Bernard!

Flo' was looking up, and laughing.  Her hat
lay beside her, and through the thick boughs a
sunbeam was sprinkling her brown hair with
gold-dust, and sparkling on her pretty teeth.
Blue butterflies were settling on her white
dress, and Bernard's blue eyes were looking
straight into hers!

I don't stop to reason.  I don't stop to remind
myself that when I am busy about the house, as
I always am on Monday morning, neither
Bernard nor Florence can be tied to my side;
that, this granted, and they being the only two
young people in the house, they must of necessity
amuse each other: which they cannot do
more innocently than by sitting on the lawn in
my sight; neither do I reason that I do not
literally expect Bernard's eyes to be lowered, save
and except when they are turned towards me.

I flounce about angrily all the morning, and
will not go near them.  I can see Bernard looking
up at the house, and I know very well
he is looking for me; but the whistle that
generally brings me to his side dies away on the
air, and I don't go to him.  Then they come
in to lunch.  Flo' with her delicate cheeks like
rose-leaves, effect of sitting in the open air.  I
catch a glimpse of myself in the glass over my
head, and my features are all twisted up to look
sarcastic, and do not by any means add to my
beauty.

I am very angry with Miss Burnand, and
experience a childish desire to retaliate, by giving
her the drumstick of a fowl.  Manners prevail,
and I give her a wing.

Bernard sees that something is wrong, but
is, of course, too grand to try to set it right.
He stretches his long legs, and stares at us
both—rather lazily.

This is our first tiff, and I feel there is
something exciting in it, though I am conscious
of a vague suspicion that smooth sailing was much
better.  Ah me! how the small waves rise and
swell!  Shall I never again see the calm water?

I had only meant to be dignified and
stately, and I soon grew tired of that, and
would very gladly have come round, but—to
my horror—there was a barrier.  An invisible
one, but none the less a barrier, and I could
not break it down.  I found, when I would have
again addressed Bernard in the old familiar
manner, a shade on the face that had so long
been my own.  I do not think he was aware of
it.  He was gayer than usual, and nobody else
seemed to notice his constraint; but where
Bernard is concerned, my senses are quickened,
and to me it was too clear.  This change in
Bernard, arising from the change in me, was
reflected in my voice, and so we went on, affecting
each other, until at length we were rapidly
drifting apart.  And all outwardly was the same.
Only now, instead of the old sweet whisper,
"Come into the woods, Maggie!" there would
be Bernard, hard and metallic, simply awaiting
our pleasure to start.  And Florence would fit
on cream-tinted gloves.  And I, foolish and
jealous, could not stand it, and would let
them go out into the quiet beauty of the woods,
without me.

Of course, it was I who suffered most.
Bernard had his sense of ill usage, and an
Englishman's pleasure in sulking, but I was beyond
such help.  In the depths of my misery, I threw
myself at full length on the floor, and was
instantly half stunned by a projecting nail.
Physical pain did me good, I crawled up again,
and then, glad of the excuse to be extracted from
my headache, I went off to bed.

In bed, instead of sleep, I find wisdom.  On
one point I am quite determined.  I will not
expose myself to Florence.

Presently she comes up to me, bringing her
sweet face, and her wonderful absence of tact,
into my sick room.  She pities me very much,
and tries in her small way to do me good.

"Such a lovely walk!" she breathes
melodiously:  though to me her voice sounds like any
old raven's.  I become at once uncomplimentary,
and inaudible.

"It depends very much on one's thoughts
though," she remarks, "whether one enjoys
things or no.  I was thinking of him."