t and tender, parted in a smile of welcome as she held
out her hands to the girls.

Belle caught them in her own, and kissed them gently.

'This is our cousin, my lady, Aunt Mildred's only child.'

The thin hands drew Pauline's face down, and she was kissed on cheek and
brow.

'Your mother was my friend, dear child, in the long ago.' Then she added
softly, with her hands on the silver cross at her throat, 'Are you a
princess? Do you belong to the King?'

Pauline shook her head, 'No, my lady.'

'I am very sorry.'

They sat down then beside her. She held Pauline's strong hand between
her wasted fingers.

'Dear Mildred Davis! You have her eyes and brow, my child. It does me
good to see you.'

'That is just like papa,' said Belle. 'He says he can almost fancy
himself back in the old home with Aunt Mildred getting him ready for
school.'

Pauline coloured with pleasure. No one spoke of her mother at Sleepy
Hollow.

She looked through the French windows into the conservatory.

'How beautiful the flowers are!'

'You love them? Of course you must, to be your mother's child. It is
such a comfort to me to lie here and listen to them talk.'

'Talk!' exclaimed Pauline. 'Do they do that, my lady?'

Tryphosa smiled.

'Surely,' she said gently. '"Every flower has its story, and every
butterfly's life is a poem."'

Belle broke the silence.

'We heard you singing, my lady; I do not think Pauline had thought you
would have the heart to sing.'

A ripple of the sweetest laughter Pauline had ever heard fell through
the quiet room, and Tryphosa's eyes flashed merrily.

'"The pilgrims kept on their journey, and as they journeyed they sang,"'
she said. 'Do you think there is anything to cry about when we are on
our way to a palace, dear child? But Sunday is always my resting time,'
she continued, 'I do not sing as much through the week as I should. I am
tired often, and busy.'

'Busy,' echoed Pauline involuntarily, with a glance at the frail body
propped up among the cushions.

Tryphosa gave another soft, merry laugh, and drew forward a rosewood
writing-table, which was fitted to her couch.

'Here is where I do my work, when my hands are willing; and then there
are my dear poor people, and my rich friends, and sometimes the latter
need as much comforting as the former. Oh, there is a great deal to do,
dear child, for some have to be taught the way to the palace, and some
have to be brought into audience with the