get home,"
thought I, very much upset by this information, "let me get home to my
dear, uncritical, admiring babies, who accept my nose as an example of
what a nose should be, and whatever its colour think it beautiful." And
thrusting the handkerchief back into the little girl's hands, I hurried
away down the path. She packed it away hastily, but it took some seconds
for it was of the size of a small sheet, and then came running after me.
"Where are you going?" she asked surprised, as I turned down the path
leading to the gate.

"Through this gate," I replied with decision.

"But you mustn't--we're not allowed to go through there----"

So strong was the force of old habits in that place that at the words
not allowed my hand dropped of itself from the latch; and at that
instant a voice calling quite close to us through the mist struck me
rigid.

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" called the voice, "Come in at once to your
lessons--Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"

"It's Miss Robinson," whispered the little girl, twinkling with
excitement; then, catching sight of my face, she said once more with
eager insistence, "Who are you?"

"Oh, I'm a ghost!" I cried with conviction, pressing my hands to my
forehead and looking round fearfully.

"Pooh," said the little girl.

It was the last remark I heard her make, for there was a creaking of
approaching boots in the bushes, and seized by a frightful panic I
pulled the gate open with one desperate pull, flung it to behind me, and
fled out and away down the wide, misty fields.

The Gotha Almanach says that the reigning cousin married the daughter
of a Mr. Johnstone, an Englishman, in 1885, and that in 1886 their only
child was born, Elizabeth. November 20th.--Last night we had ten degrees
of frost (Fahrenheit), and I went out the first thing this morning to
see what had become of the tea-roses, and behold, they were wide awake
and quite cheerful--covered with rime it is true, but anything but black
and shrivelled. Even those in boxes on each side of the verandah steps
were perfectly alive and full of buds, and one in particular, a Bouquet
d'Or, is a mass of buds, and would flower if it could get the least
encouragement. I am beginning to think that the tenderness of tea-roses
is much exaggerated, and am certainly very glad I had the courage to try
them in this northern garden. But I must not fly too boldly in the face
of Providence, and have ordered those in the boxes to be taken into the
gr