From this an open glass door let me
into the greenhouse and into the presence of the beauties I had so
often looked up to from the street. I lost myself then. Geraniums
breathed over me; roses smiled at me; a daphne at one end of the room
filled the whole place with its fragrance. Amaryllis bulbs were
magnificent; fuchsias dropped with elegance; jonquils were shy and
dainty; violets were good; hyacinths were delicious; tulips were
splendid. Over and behind all these and others, were wonderful ferns,
and heaths most delicate in their simplicity, and myrtles most
beautiful with their shining dark foliage and starry white blossoms. I
lost myself at first, and wandered past all these new and old friends
in a dream; then I waked up to an intense feeling of homesickness. I
had not been in such a greenhouse in a long time; the geraniums and
roses and myrtles summoned me back to the years when I was a little
happy thing at Melbourne House--or summoned the images of that time
back to me. Father and mother and home--the delights and freedoms of
those days--the carelessness, and the care--the blessed joys of that
time before I knew Miss Pinshon, or school, and before I was perplexed
with the sorrows and the wants of the world, and before I was
alone--above all, when papa and mamma and I were _at home_. The
geraniums and the roses set me back there so sharply that I felt it
all. I had lost myself at first going into the greenhouse; and now I
had quite lost sight of everything else, and stood gazing at the faces
of the flowers with some tears on my own, and, I suppose, a good deal
of revelation of my feeling; for I was unutterably startled by the
touch of two hands upon my shoulders and a soft whisper in my ear,
"What is it, my bairn?"

It was Miss Cardigan's soft Scotch accent, and it was besides a
question of the tenderest sympathy. I looked at her, saw the kind and
strong grey eyes which were fixed on me wistfully; and hiding my face
in her bosom I sobbed aloud.

I don't know how I came to be there, in her arms, nor how I did
anything so unlike my habit; but there I was, and it was done, and
Miss Cardigan and I were in each other's confidence. It was only for
one moment that my tears came; then I recovered myself.

"What sort of discourse did the flowers hold to you, little one?" said
Miss Cardigan's kind voice; while her stout person hid all view of me
that could have been had through the glass door.

"Papa is away," I said