withered blades of grass lay between its
pages; and on one of its blank leaves was
this inscription:—" Sarah Leeson, her book.
The gift of Hugh Polwheal."

"Look at it, my dear," said her mother. " I
want you to know it again. When my time
comes to leave you, Rosamond, lay it on my
bosom with your own dear hands, and put a
little morsel of your hair with it, and bury me,
in the grave in Porthgenna churchyard, where
he has been waiting for me to come to him
so many weary years. The other things in
the box, Rosamond, belong to you; they
are little stolen keepsakes that used to
remind me of my child, when I was alone in
the world. Perhaps, years and years hence,
when your brown hair begins to grow grey
like mine, you may like to show these poor
trifles to your children when you talk about
me. Don't mind telling them, Rosamond,
how your mother sinned and how she
suffered—you can always let these little
trifles speak for her at the end. The least
of them will show that she always loved
you."

She took out of the box a morsel of neatly-
folded white paper, which had been placed
under the book of Wesley's Hymns, opened
it, and showed her daughter a few faded
laburnum leaves that lay inside. " I took
these from your bed, Rosamond, when I came
as a stranger, to nurse you at West Winston.
When I heard who the lady was who was
staying at the inn, the temptation to risk
anything for the sake of seeing you and
seeing my grandchild was too much for me. I
tried to take a ribbon out of your trunk,
love, after I had taken the flowers—a ribbon
that I knew had been round your neck. But
the doctor came near at the time, and frightened
me."

She folded the paper up again, laid it
aside on the table, and drew from the box
next a small print which had been taken
from the illustrations to a pocket-book. It
represented a little girl, in a gipsy-hat sitting
by the water-side, and weaving a daisy chain.
As a design, it was worthless; as a print, it
had not even the mechanical merit of being
a good impression. Underneath it a line was
written in faintly-pencilled letters:—" Rosamond
when I last saw her."

"It was never pretty enough for you," she
said. " But still there was something in it
that helped me to remember what my
own love was like, when she was a little
girl."

She put the engraving aside with the
laburnum leaves, and took from the box a
leaf of a copy-book, folded in two, out of
which there dropped a tiny strip of paper,
covered with small printed letters. She
looked at the strip of paper first. "The
advertisement of your marriage, Rosamond,"
she said. " I used to be fond of reading it
over and over again to myself when I was
alone, and trying to fancy how you looked
and what dress you wore. If I had only
known when you were going to be married,
I would have ventured into the church, my
love, to look at you and at your husband.
But that was not to be,—and perhaps it was
best so, for the seeing you in that stolen way
might only have made my trials harder to
bear afterwards. I have had no other keepsake
to remind me of you, Rosamond, except
this leaf out of your first copy-book. The
nurse-maid at Porthgenna tore up the rest
one day to light the fire, and I took this leaf
when she was not looking. See! you had
not got as far as words then,—you could only
do up-strokes and down-strokes. O me!
how many times I have sat looking at this
one leaf of paper, and trying to fancy that I
saw your small child's hand travelling over
it, with the pen held tight in the rosy
little fingers. I think I have cried oftener,
my darling, over that first copy of yours
than over all my other keepsakes put together."

Rosamond turned aside her face towards
the window to hide the tears which she could
restrain no longer. As she wiped them
away, the first sight of the darkening sky
warned her that the twilight dimness was
coming soon. How dull and faint the glow
in the west looked now! how near it was to
the close of day!

When she turned towards the bed again,
her mother was still looking at the leaf of
the copy-book.

"That nurse-maid who tore up all the rest
of it to light the fire," she said, " was a kind
friend to me, in those early days at Porthgenna.
She used sometimes to let me put
you to bed, Rosamond; and never asked
questions, or teased me, as the rest of them
did. She risked the loss of her place by
being so good to me. My mistress was afraid
of my betraying myself and betraying her if
I was much in the nursery, and she gave
orders that I was not to go there, because it
was not my place. None of the other women
-servants were so often stopped from playing
with you and kissing you, Rosamond, as I
was. But the nursemaid—God bless and
prosper her for it!—stood my friend. I
often lifted you into your little cot, my love,
and wished you good-night, when my
mistress thought I was at work in her room.
You used to say you liked your nurse better
than you liked me, but you never told me so
fretfully; and you always put your laughing
lips up to mine whenever I asked you for a
kiss!"

Rosamond laid her head gently on the
pillow by the side of her mother's. " Try to
think less of the past, dear, and more of the
future," she whispered pleadingly; "try to
think of the time when my child will help
you to recall those old days without their
sorrow,—the time when you will teach him
to put his lips up to yours, as I used to put
mine."