Erica told as much of the story as she could bring herself to
repeat, quite enough to show Charles Osmond the terrible harm which
may be wrought by tactless modern Christianity. He looked down
very sorrowfully at the eager, expressive face of the speaker; it
was at once very white and very pink, for the child was sorely
wounded as well as indignant. She was evidently, however, a little
vexed with herself for feeling the insult so keenly.

"It is very stupid of me," she said laughing a little; "it is time
I was used to it; but I never can help shaking in this silly way
when any one is rude to us. Tom laughs at me, and says I am made
on wire springs like a twelfth-cake butterfly! But it is rather
hard, isn't it, to be shut out from everything, even from giving?"

"I think it is both hard and wrong," said Charles Osmond. "But we
do not all shut you out."

"No," said Erica. "You have always been kind, you are not a bit
like a Christian. Would you"--she hesitated a little--"would
you take the flowers instead?"

It was said with a shy grace inexpressibly winning. Charles Osmond
was touched and gratified.

"They will be a great treat to us," he said. "My mother is very
fond of flowers. Will you come upstairs and see her? We shall
find afternoon tea going on, I expect."

So the rejected flowers found a resting place in the clergyman's
house; and Brian, coming in from his rounds, was greeted by a sight