were not the clustering curls of youth.

How the mother watched all the next morning, while the unconscious
Carey first marvelled at her nervousness and silence, and then grew
almost infected by it. It was very strange, she thought, that Mrs.
Brownlow, always so kind, should say nothing but "humph" on being
told that Miss Heath's workmen had finished, and that she must return
next Monday morning. It was the Doctor's day to be early at the
hospital, and he had had a summons to see some one on the way, so
that he was gone before breakfast, when Carey's attempts to discuss
her happy day in the country met with such odd, fitful answers; for,
in fact, Mrs. Brownlow could not trust herself to talk, and had no
sooner done breakfast than she went off to her housekeeping affairs
and others, which she managed unusually to prolong.

Carey was trying to draw some flowers in a glass before her-—a little
purple, green-winged orchis, a cowslip, and a quivering dark-brown
tuft of quaking grass. He came and stood behind her, saying—-

"You've got the character of those."

"They are very difficult," sighed Carey; "I never tried flowers
before, but I wanted to take them with me."

"To take them with you?" he repeated, rather dreamily.

"Yes, back to another sort of Heath," she said, with a little laugh;
"don't you know I go next Monday?"

"If you go, I hope it will only be to come back."