n their little laughs and Oo's," said Hazel.

"And their delight day after day; and the comfort of them in their
little sicknesses," said Miss Craydocke.

"And the stories that have got to be told about every picture," said
Dorris.

"No; nothing really nice does end; it goes on and on," said Mrs.
Ripwinkley.

"Of course!" said Hazel, triumphantly, turning on the Drummond light
of her child-faith. "We're forever and ever people, you know!"

"Please paste some more flowers, Mr. Kincaid," said Rosamond, who
sat next him, stitching. "I want to make an all-flower book of this.
No,--not roses; I've a whole page already; this great white lily, I
think. That's beautiful!"

"Wouldn't it do to put in this laurel bush next, with the bird's
nest in it?"

"O, those lovely pink and white laurels! Yes. Where did you get such
pictures, Miss Hazel?"

"O, everybody gave them to us, all summer, ever since we began. Mrs.
Geoffrey gave those flowers; and mother painted some. She did that
laurel. But don't call me Miss Hazel, please; it seems to send me
off into a corner."

Rosamond answered by a little irresistible caress; leaning her head
down to Hazel, on her other side, until her cheek touched the
child's bright curls, quickly and softly. There was magnetism
between those two.

Ah, the magnetism ran round!

"For a child's picture-book, Mrs. Ripwinkley?" said Mrs. Scherman,
reaching over for the laurel picture. "Aren't these almost
too exquisite? They would like a big scarlet poppy just as
well,--perhaps better. Or a clump of cat-o'-nine-tails," she added,
whimsically.

"There _is_ a clump of cat-o'-nine-tails," said Mrs. Ripwinkley. "I
remember how I used to delight in them as a child,--the real ones."

"Pictures are to _tell_ things," said Desire, in her brief way.

"These little city refugees _must_ see them, somehow," said
Rosamond, gently. "I understand. They will never get up on the
mountains, maybe, where the laurels grow, or into the shady swamps
among the flags and the cat-o'-nine-tails. You have _picked out_
pictures to give them, Mrs. Ripwinkley."

Kenneth Kincaid's scissors stopped a moment, as he looked at
Rosamond, pausing also over the placing of her leaves.

Desire saw that from the other side; she saw how beautiful and
gracious this girl was--this Rosamond Holabird; and there was a
strange little twinge in her heart, as she felt, suddenly, that let
there be ever so much that was true and kindly, or