"We shall be friends as well as cousins for the future. Until now, we have been neither," said Adelaide. "I wish you were not going away, Joyce. If you will stay, I will try to make The Chase more of a home to you than it has been. But how can you, after what mamma said this morning? I think that proposal about the dresses and your helping to alter ours was too dreadful." And the girl blushed with shame at the recollection. "I should not have minded about working early and late if you had wanted help and we had worked together," said Joyce. "If any one here had been ill, I should have thought nothing too much to do for them, night or day. Supposing that my uncle had been poor, and had given me a home with his children, I would have slaved for him and them most cheerfully, and taken care that his kindness should have cost him nothing in the end. But you are all rich, and every wish can be gratified; and the thought of being sent to sew under the orders of Russell was—" "Hush, dear Joyce! I cannot bear it," interposed Adelaide, as she laid her white hand on her cousin's lips. "That alone would have driven you from us, and after what mamma said, you cannot stay. Now you must show you have forgiven me by taking this little birthday gift," and drawing a ring-case from her pocket, Adelaide tried to place a beautiful ring on Joyce's finger. "Do not ask me, dear; I cannot take it," said Joyce. "I bought it myself, and I have so large an allowance that it cost me nothing; I wish it had. The having too much money takes from us the joy of self-sacrifice." "I cannot take it," repeated Joyce. "How would that diamond look on the hand of a maid to little children? Besides, I have rings that belonged to my mother, if I wished to wear any." "You have not forgiven me," sighed Adelaide. "Yes, and I will take a gift, too, and prize it. Spend ten shillings on a little brooch in cut steel, and I will wear it, and never part with it while I live. And give me your likeness; I should like to have it, though I shall always picture your face as it looks to-night." "You shall have these trifles, Joyce, and I will keep this, no matter how long, until you are willing to wear it." And restoring the ring to its case she put it into her pocket. "Now what else can I do for you?" she asked. "My uncle breakfasts earlier than you and the rest do. I have been used to pour out his coffee and join him at table. I think he will miss me at first. Will you sometimes breakfast with him?" "How selfish I have been not to notice this, or care for his loneliness! Rely on me, I will breakfast with him always, unless by some special chance I have been up very late the night before." "I shall neither be missed nor wanted," said Joyce. "Indeed, I begin to fear I shall soon be forgotten." But she smiled as she said it, for she was glad to think that the father and daughter would be brought together by her own departure.