‘Ange’s wants are so few,’ she said, ‘that I think it would be a pity to take much trouble about it, Hilda! She will be just as well pleased with a bunch of flowers from your hand as anything else. I, myself, intend to give her my new muslin apron, and I know she will say it is twice too good for her and refuse it half a dozen times before she accepts it.’ ‘Now, Tessie! you are provoking,’ I replied. ‘One does not always ask before making a present if the reception of it is necessary to the happiness of one’s friend; but surely we can think of some trifle that Ange would like me to get for her, whether she can do without it or not. Shall I buy a pair of earrings to match her silver cross?’ ‘Oh no, Hilda; pray don’t!’ cried Tessie in a voice of such feminine alarm that I burst out laughing. ‘Why not? They would look very pretty in her little ears.’ ‘They would be far too expensive a present to make her! She would not like it, and neither would papa. We have never worn ornaments of any kind; and Ange would not have that silver cross, excepting that it was given to Madame Marmoret at her own confirmation, and she gave it to Ange when she was quite a little baby.’ ‘And so that old vixen Madame Marmoret may make the child a handsome present, and I am forbidden to do so,’ I replied, half offended. ‘I shall not consult you any more, Tessie, but buy her just what I please.’ Tessie looked grave, but she said nothing more, and we walked on for a few minutes in silence. Then she began again: ‘I am sure Ange would rather have a ribbon that you have already worn than the finest piece of jewellery that Rille could produce.’ But I clapped my hand over her mouth, and raced her up the hill till she was out of breath. ‘And now if you dare to open your lips once more on that subject, I will push you all the way down again,’ I said, laughing, and she was fain to laugh with me; for I was determined to indulge myself by buying something both good and handsome, for my pretty Ange. The conversation, however, simple as it was, seemed to have affected Tessie in no common degree. She was unusually silent as we sat side by side, diligently plying our needles, and she sighed more than once as she looked over the broad valley of Artois. Her mood was infectious. She made me thoughtful, too, and I began to muse over that grave in Norwood Cemetery, and the dear, dear face that lay beneath it. ‘Tessie,’ I said suddenly, ‘can you remember your mother?’ ‘No, Hilda! She died when I was only a few years old, and Ange an infant in long-clothes.’ ‘You are happy not to be able to remember her. You must miss her so much the less.’ ‘Do you think so? Sometimes I fancy I must miss her more. I have never had the benefit of her guidance or counsel, you know, Hilda!’ ‘That is true; but your father has supplied her place. A man’s advice is better than that of a woman, however good and clever she may be.’