"These flowers have just come for you, ma'am," Kingston said quietly. Her subdued voice, her pale face, and heavily shadowed eyes, did not make her a cheerful-looking messenger; but Lesley, for the time being, thought of nothing but the flowers. "Where do they come from, Kingston?" she asked, eagerly. "I was only to say one word, ma'am--that they came from over the way." There was no want of color now in Lesley's face. Her cheeks were rose-tinted, her eyes had grown strangely bright. "Over the way." Of course that meant Maurice. Did not he live over the way?--and was there any one else at the Kenyons' house who would send her such lovely flowers? If he sent her flowers, she reflected, he could not have yet ceased to care for her, although she had behaved so badly to him--in his eyes, at least. The thought gave her courage and content. Perhaps he was coming that night--he had a standing invitation to all the Brookes' evening parties--and when he came he would perhaps "say something" to her, something which she could answer suitably, so as to make him understand. She did not know how pretty she looked as she stood looking down at her flowers, the color and smile and dimples coming and going in her fair young face in very unwonted confusion. But Mary Kingston noted every change of tint and expression, and was surprised. For the little mystery was quite plain to her. It was not Mr. Kenyon who sent the flowers at all. Mr. Kenyon was too busy a man to buy bouquets. It was Oliver Trent who had sent them, for Kingston had herself seen him carrying the flowers and entrusting them to a commissionnaire with a message for Miss Brooke. She believed, too, that Lesley knew from whom they came. But she was not sufficiently alert and interested just then to make these matters of great importance to her. She did not think it worth her while to say how much she knew. With a short quick sigh she turned away, and expected to see her young mistress quit the room at once, still with that happy smile upon her face. But Lesley had heard the sigh. "Oh, Kingston," she said, laying her hand on the woman's arm, "I wish you would not sigh like that!" "I beg your pardon, ma'am; I did not mean to annoy you." "I don't mean _that_: I mean it for your own sake. You seem so sad about something--you have been sad so long!" "I've had a sad life, Miss Lesley." "But there is surely some special sadness now?" "Yes," said the woman slowly. "Yes, that is true. I've--lost--a friend." She put a strong emphasis on the word "lost," and paused before and after uttering it, as if it bore a peculiar meaning to her. But Lesley took the word in its ordinary sense. "I am very sorry," she said. "It must be very terrible, I think, when one's friends die." She stood silent for a minute--a shadow from Kingston's grief troubling the sweetness of her fair face. It was the maid who broke the silence.