t being so late," she cried, after an
affectionate kiss had been exchanged. "I was afraid I was last."

"Oh no, dear; auntie is not down," said Laura, glancing at the clock.
"She'll be ten minutes yet."

"Is she always so punctual?"

"Yes. She does not leave her room till the church clock begins to
strike. She is very proud of being so exact."

"Is--is--"

"Fred down? No, dear. There! don't blush, goosey. I expect he was
kept late last night, and he loses so much rest, that we never disturb
him. He has his breakfast at all sorts of times, but it will be at nine
this morning."

This was accompanied by an arch look.

"Oh, how sweet the flowers are!" cried Isabel, turning away to hide the
heightened colour in her cheeks.

"Yes, dear," said Laura, banteringly, "and life now is all roses and
sweets, and the sky was never so blue, and the London sparrows'
`chiswick, chiswick' sounds like the song of nightingales, doesn't it?
Heigho! I wish I were in love, and someone loved me, and put his arm
round my waist and took me for walks along the primrose path of
dalliance."

There was a light step behind her, two arms were passed about her waist,
a soft, white chin rested upon her shoulder, and a rounded cheek was
pressed to hers.

"Don't tease me, Laury darling," was whispered. "I can't help feeling
all you say, and looking very weak and stupid now."

"Tease you, my own sweet!" cried Laura, swinging round to embrace in
turn. "No, of course I won't. It's only my nasty envy, hatred and
malice, because I can't be as happy as you. There--and there--and
there!"

Three kisses, and Isabel started away.

"Fred's coming!" she whispered.

"No. That's auntie's soft, pudgy step. Fred comes down thump, thump,
like a wooden-legged man."

"Laury!"

"Oh, well, he doesn't notice where he's going. He's always thinking of
operations and that sort of thing. Good-morning, aunt dear."

"Good-morning, Isabel, my child--morning, Laura."

"Aren't you well, dear? You look so serious."

"Yes, Laura, I look serious. It's a sad world."

The girls exchanged glances, and with melancholy mien the old lady rang
the bell for breakfast, and then dropped into her seat with a weary
sigh.

"No letters, Laura?"

"No, aunt dear. There's a lovely rose instead."

"Thank you, Laura. Dear, dear! no one writes to me now. I don't know
why one should go on living when one grows old."

"Because Fred and I want you, dear," cr