u are not the first bonny
baby who lay in my arms. Years before you were born I had a son. Oh!
how can I speak of him?--he seemed to be more beautiful than any other
child--he had ways--he had looks--Primrose, I can't go on, you must
ask Hannah to tell you what my boy was like. I had him for five years,
then I lost him; he did not die--he was stolen from me. Can you wonder
now that your mother sometimes looks sad, and that even you and
Jasmine and Daisy fail now and then to make me smile?

"My bonny boy was stolen. I never saw him dead; I never could go to
his grave to put flowers there--twenty years ago now he was taken from
me, and I have had neither trace nor tidings of him.

"Hannah will tell you particulars, Primrose, for I cannot. My trouble
far surpassed the bitterness of death. Only for you three, I could not
have lived--

"Your mother,
"Constance Mainwaring."

Primrose had scarcely finished reading this letter, and had by no
means taken in the full meaning of its contents, when light, soft
footsteps paused outside the room, and she heard the handle of the
door being very softly turned.

Cramming the letter into her pocket, and shutting the lid of the
little cabinet, she ran and unlocked the door. Jasmine was standing
without.

"I looked for you everywhere, Primrose, and I did not mean really to
disturb you here; I thought you might be here, and I tried the handle
very softly, meaning to steal away again. Are you very busy,
Primrose?"

"I can come with you if you want me for anything, Jasmine," answered
Primrose, putting her hand to her head in a dazed sort of way.

Jasmine's brow cleared, and her face grew bright instantly.

"It's rather exciting," she said; "I'm so glad you can come. It is
about Poppy Jenkins--Poppy is downstairs--she is going away--she has
come to say good-bye. Do you know, Primrose, that she is actually
going to London?"

Jasmine looked so delighted and eager that Primrose could not help
smiling, and taking her sister's hand, they ran downstairs together.

Poppy, who had very black eyes, cheeks with a brilliant color, and
hair like a raven's wing, was standing in the drawing-room twisting
her apron strings and chatting volubly to Daisy. She had known the
girls all her life, and not only loved them dearly, but respected them
much. To Poppy Jenkins there never were three such beautiful and
altogether charming young ladies as the Misses Mainwaring.

When Primrose appe