windows; the younger ones were swinging in the lime-walk. Jessie and
I had betaken ourselves with our books to a corner we much affected,
where there was a bench under a may-tree.

Jessie was my school friend--chum, I think we called it; she was a
fair, pretty girl, with a thoroughly English face, a neat compact
figure, and manners which every one pronounced charming and lady-like;
her mind was lady-like too, which was the best of all.

Jessie read industriously--her book seemed to rivet her attention;
but I was restless and distrait. The sun was shining on the limes,
and the fresh green leaves seemed to thrill and shiver with life: a
lazy breeze kept up a faint soughing, a white butterfly was hovering
over the pink may, the girls' shrill voices sounded everywhere; a
thousand undeveloped thoughts, vague and unsubstantial as the
sunshine above us, seemed to blend with the sunshine and voices.

"Jessie, do put down your book--I want to talk." Jessie raised her
eyebrows a little quizzically but she was always amiable; she had
that rare unselfishness of giving up her own will ungrudgingly; I
think this was why I loved her so. Her story was interesting, but she
put down her book without a sigh.

"You are always talking, Esther," she said, with a provoking little
smile; "but then," she added, quickly, as though she were afraid that
I should think her unkind, "I never heard other girls talk so well."

"Nonsense," was my hasty response: "don't put me out of temper with
myself. I was indulging in a little bit of philosophy while you were
deep in the 'Daisy Chain.' I was thinking what constituted a great