on she had danced two-thirds of the programme at a ball
with an officer even more dashing than the objectionable nephew of Mrs
Mott, and in a corner of the conservatory had given him a flower from
her bouquet. He had kissed the flower before pressing it in his pocket-
book, and had looked as if he would have liked to kiss something else
into the bargain. ... After twenty-five years of life at Norton, it was
astonishing how vividly the prim little widow recalled the guilty thrill
of that moment! On yet another occasion she had carried on a
clandestine correspondence with the brother of a friend, and had
awakened to tardy pangs of conscience only when a more attractive suitor
came upon the scene!

Mrs Ramsden blushed at the remembrance, and felt a kindly softening of
the heart towards the absent Cornelia but Miss Briskett remained coldly
unmoved. She had been an old maid in her cradle, and had gone on
steadily growing old maidier ever since. Never had she so forgotten
herself as to dally with the affections of any young man, which was
perhaps the less to her credit, as no young man had exhibited any
inclination to tempt her from the paths of single blessedness.

She looked down her nose at her friend's remark, and replied that she
trusted she might be enabled to do her duty, without either prejudice or
indulgence, and soon afterwards Mrs Ramsden took her leave, and
returned to her own domain.

At one of the windows of the over-furnished sitting-room of The Holt, a
girl was standing gazing dreamily through the spotted net curtains, with
a weary little droop in the lines of the figure which bespoke fatigue,
rather mental, than physical. She was badly dressed, in an ill-cut
skirt, and an ill-cut blouse, and masses of light brown hair were
twisted heavily together at the back of her head; but the face, which
she turned to welcome her mother reminded one instinctively of a bunch
of flowers--of white, smooth-leaved narcissi; of fragrant pink roses; of
pansies--deep, purple-blue pansies, soft as velvet. Given the right
circumstances and accessories, this might have been a beauty, an
historical beauty, whose name would be handed down from one generation
to another; a Georgina of Devonshire, a beautiful Miss Gunning, a
witching Nell Gwynne; but alas! beauty is by no means independent of
external aid! The poets who declaim to the contrary are men, poor
things, who know no better; every woman in the world will plump for a