m outside the
porch. Be said, now."

"It seems such a thing to think of flowers that way,--making them signs
of sorrow."

"You know what you said about your father and the
plant,--'Death-come-quickly.' I have heard snowdrops called 'flowers
from dead-men's dale.' Look at them. They are like a shrouded corpse.
They keep their heads always turned down to the grave. It is ill-luck to
bring them where there is life and love and warmth. It will do you no
harm to mind me; so be said, Ducie. Besides, I wouldn't pull them
anyway. There was little Grace Lewthwaite, she was always gathering the
poor, innocent flowers just to fling them on the dusty road to be
trodden and trampled to pieces; well, before she was twelve years old,
she faded away too. Perhaps even the prayers of mangled flowers may be
heard by the merciful Creator."

"You do give me such turns, Charlotte." But who ever reasons with a
superstition? Ducie simply obeyed Charlotte's wish, and laid the pallid
blooms almost remorsefully back upon the earth from which she had taken
them. A strange melancholy filled her heart; although the servants were
busy all around, and everywhere she heard the good-natured laugh, the
thoughtless whistle, or the songs of hearts at ease.

When she entered the houseplace she put the bright kettle on the hob,
and took out her silver teapot and her best cups of lovely crown Derby.
And as she moved about in her quiet, hospitable way they began to talk
of Stephen. "Was he well?"--"Yes, he was well, but there were things
that might be better. I thought when he went to Bradford," continued
Ducie, "that he would at least be learning something that he might be
the better of in the long end; and that in a mill he would over-get his
notions about sheepskins being spun into golden fleeces. But he doesn't
seem to get any new light that way, and Up-Hill is not doing well
without him. Fold and farm are needing the master's eye and hand; and it
will be a poor lambing season for us, I think, wanting Steve. And, deary
me, Charlotte, one word from you would bring him home!"

Charlotte stooped, and lifted the tortoise-shell cat, lying on the rug
at her feet. She was not fond of cats, and she was only attentive to
puss as the best means of hiding her blushes. Ducie understood the
small, womanly ruse, and waited no other answer. "What is the matter
with the squire, Charlotte? Does he think that Stephen isn't good enough
to marry you? I'll not say that L