find its perfection just when all other kinds of happiness
fail utterly?"

"I can't conceive," said Constance, presently rallying, or
trying to rally herself — "what you and I have to do in a
place where people are enjoying themselves at this moment, Mr.
Carleton!"

He smiled at that, and led her out of it into the
conservatory, close to which they found themselves. It was a
large and fine one, terminating the suite of rooms in this
direction. Few people were there; but, at the far end stood a
group, among whom Fleda and Mr. Thorn were conspicuous. He was
busying himself in putting together a quantity of flowers for
her; and Mrs. Evelyn and old Mr. Thorn stood looking on; with
Mr. Stackpole. Mr. Stackpole was an Englishman, of certainly
not very prepossessing exterior, but somewhat noted as an
author, and a good deal sought after in consequence. At
present he was engaged by Mrs. Evelyn. Mr. Carleton and
Constance sauntered up towards them, and paused at a little
distance to look at some curious plants.

"Don't try for that, Mr. Thorn," said Fleda, as the gentleman
was making rather ticklish efforts to reach a superb fuchsia
that hung high. "You are endangering sundry things besides
yourself."

"I have learned, Miss Fleda," said Thorn, as with much ado he
grasped the beautiful cluster, "that what we take the most
pains for is apt to be reckoned the best prize — a truth I