Literally and figuratively, their lives seemed to wander
through flowery pleasure-paths. Here was cold, biting mid-winter
for her, and such as her--for those poor beggars almost a season of
death; but to Miss Duncombe and her companions, a happy, merry time,
when flowers still bloomed, and fires crackled, and comforts and
luxuries were piled around them like fairy gifts. What did they know
of the meaning of the word, so terrific to the poor? What was winter
to them? But Ruth fancied that Mr Bellingham looked as if he could
understand the feelings of those removed from him by circumstance
and station. He had drawn up the windows of his carriage, it is true,
with a shudder.

Ruth, then, had been watching him.

Yet she had no idea that any association made her camellia precious
to her. She believed it was solely on account of its exquisite beauty
that she tended it so carefully. She told Jenny every particular of
its presentation, with open, straight-looking eye, and without the
deepening of a shade of colour.

"Was it not kind of him? You can't think how nicely he did it, just
when I was a little bit mortified by her ungracious ways."

"It was very nice, indeed," replied Jenny. "Such a beautiful flower!
I wish it had some scent."

"I wish it to be exactly as it is; it is perfect. So pure!" said
Ruth, almost clasping her treasure as she placed it in water. "Who is
Mr Bellingham?"

"He is son to that Mrs Bellingham of the Priory, for whom we made the
grey satin pelisse," answered Jenny, sleepily.

"That was before my time," said Ruth. But there was no answer. Jenny
was asleep.

It was long before Ruth followed her example. Even on a winter day,
it was clear morning light that fell upon her face as she smiled in
her slumber. Jenny would not waken her, but watched her face with
admiration; it was so lovely in its happiness.

"She is dreaming of last night," thought Jenny.

It was true she was; but one figure flitted more than all the rest
through her visions. He presented flower after flower to her in that
baseless morning dream, which was all too quickly ended. The night
before, she had seen her dead mother in her sleep, and she wakened,
weeping. And now she dreamed of Mr Bellingham, and smiled.

And yet, was this a more evil dream than the other?

The realities of life seemed to cut more sharply against her heart
than usual that morning. The late hours of the preceding nights, and
perhaps the excitement of