red as if Di's voice had disturbed his fancy at some pleasant
pastime, but answered with his usual sincerity,--

"I was thinking of a certain dear old fairy tale called 'Cinderella.'"

"Oh!" said Di; and her "Oh" was a most impressive monosyllable. "I see
the meaning of your smile now; and though the application of the story
is not very complimentary to all parties concerned, it is very just and
very true."

She paused a moment, then went on with softened voice and earnest
mien:--

"You think I am a blind and selfish creature. So I am, but not so blind
and selfish as I have been; for many tears have cleared my eyes, and
much sincere regret has made me humbler than I was. I have found a
better book than any father's library can give me, and I have read it
with a love and admiration that grew stronger as I turned the leaves.
Henceforth I take it for my guide and gospel, and, looking back upon
the selfish and neglectful past, can only say, Heaven bless your dear
heart, Nan!"

Laura echoed Di's last words; for, with eyes as full of tenderness, she
looked down upon the sister she had lately learned to know, saying,
warmly,--

"Yes, 'Heaven bless your dear heart, Nan!' I never can forget all you
have been to me; and when I am far away with Philip, there will always
be one countenance more beautiful to me than any pictured face I may
discover, there will be one place more dear to me than Rome. The face
will be yours, Nan, always so patient, always so serene; and the dearer
place will be this home of ours, which you have made so pleasant to me
all these years by kindnesses as numberless and noiseless as the drops
of dew."

"Dear girls, what have I ever done, that you should love me so?" cried
Nan, with happy wonderment, as the tall heads, black and golden, bent
to meet the lowly brown one, and her sisters' mute lips answered her.

Then Laura looked up, saying, playfully,--

"Here are the good and wicked sisters;-where shall we find the Prince?"

"There!" cried Di, pointing to John; and then her secret went off like
a rocket; for, with her old impetuosity, she said,--

"I have found you out, John, and am ashamed to look you in the face,
remembering the past. Girls, you know when father died, John sent us
money, which he said Mr. Owen had long owed us and had paid at last?
It was a kind lie, John, and a generous thing to do; for we needed it,
but never would have taken it as a gift. I know you meant that we
shoul