"Didn't my mother have it too?" said Fleda.

"I don't know--she had about everything that was good. A gweet, pretty
creature she was, as I ever saw."

"Was she like aunt Lucy?"

"No, not much. She was a deal handsomer than your aunt is or ever could
have been. She was the handsomest woman, I think, that ever I set eyes
upon; and a sweet, gentle, lovely creature. _You_'ll never match her,"
said Mr. Ringgan, with a curious twist of his head and sly laughing twist
of his eyes at Fleda;--"you may be as _good_ as she was, but you'll never
be as good-looking."

Fleda laughed, nowise displeased.

"You've got her hazel eyes though," remarked Mr. Ringgan, after a minute
or two, viewing his little granddaughter with a sufficiently satisfied
expression of countenance.

"Grandpa," said she, "don't you think Mr. Carleton has handsome eyes?"

"Mr. Carleton?--hum--I don't know; I didn't look at his eyes. A very
well-looking young man though--very gentlemanly too."

Fleda had heard all this and much more about her parents some dozens of
times before; but she and her grandfather were never tired of going it
over. If the conversation that recalled his lost treasures had of
necessity a character of sadness and tenderness, it yet bespoke not more