"I understand it a little better," she said; "but the meaning is just like
the primrose itself, hidden up in its green leaves. When you give it me in
writing, I will push them apart and find it. Now, tell me what else you
have brought me."

I was greatly pleased with the resemblance the child saw between the plant
and the sonnet; but I did not say anything in praise; I only expressed
satisfaction. Before I began my story, Wynnie came in and sat down with us.

"I have been to see Miss Aylmer, this morning," I said. "She feels the loss
of her mother very much, poor thing."

"How old was she, papa?" asked Connie.

"She was over ninety, my dear; but she had forgotten how much herself, and
her daughter could not be sure about it. She was a peculiar old lady,
you know. She once reproved me for inadvertently putting my hat on the
tablecloth. 'Mr. Shafton,' she said, 'was one of the old school; he would
never have done that. I don't know what the world is coming to.'"

My two girls laughed at the idea of their papa being reproved for bad
manners.

"What did you say, papa?" they asked.

"I begged her pardon, and lifted it instantly. 'O, it's all right now, my
dear,' she said, 'when you've taken it up again. But I like good manners,
though I live in a cottage now.'"

"Had she seen better days, then?" asked Wynnie.