parterres, which lived
and died only as the graceful accessories of the grandeur of an old
princely family.

She compared, mentally, the shaded and secluded life which Agnes had led
with the specious and fatal brilliancy which had been the lot of her
mother,--her simple peasant garb with those remembered visions of
jewelry and silk and embroideries with which the partial patronage of
the Duchess or the ephemeral passion of her son had decked out the poor
Isella; and then came swelling at her heart a tumultuous thought, one
which she had repressed and kept down for years with all the force of
pride and hatred. Agnes, peasant-girl though she seemed, had yet the
blood of that proud old family in her veins; the marriage had been a
true one; she herself had witnessed it.

"Yes, indeed," she said to herself, "were justice done, she would now be
a princess,--a fit mate for the nobles of the land; and here I ask no
more than to mate her to an honest smith,--I that have seen a prince
kneel to kiss her mother's hand,--yes, he did,--entreat her on his knees
to be his wife,--I saw it. But then, what came of it? Was there ever one
of these nobles that kept oath or promise to us of the people, or that
cared for us longer than the few moments we could serve his pleasure?
Old Elsie, you have done wisely! keep your dove out of the eagle's nest:
it is foul with the blood of poor innocents whom he has torn to pieces
in his cruel pride!"

These thoughts swelled in silence in the mind of Elsie, while she was
busy sorting and arranging her household stores, and making those
thousand-and-one preparations known to every householder, whether of
much or little, who meditates a long journey.

To Agnes she seemed more than ever severe and hard; yet probably there
never was a time when every pulse of her heart was beating more warmly
for the child, and every thought of the future was more entirely
regulated with reference to her welfare. It is no sinecure to have the
entire devotion of a strong, enterprising, self-willed friend, as Agnes
had all her life found. One cannot gather grapes of thorns or figs of
thistles, and the affection of thorny and thistly natures has often as
sharp an acid and as long prickers as wild gooseberries,--yet it is
their best, and must be so accepted.

Agnes tried several times to offer her help to her grandmother, but was
refused so roughly that she dared not offer again, and therefore went to
her favorite statio