After they had entered the wood Fan began straying at short intervals from the path to gather flowers and grasses, or to look more closely at a butterfly at rest and sunning its open brightly-patterned wings. “I think I shall sit down on the grass here to read,” said Constance at length. “You can ramble about and gather flowers if you like, and you'll know where to find me.” They had now reached a spot to which Constance was in the habit of resorting almost daily, where the ground was free from underwood, and thickly carpeted with grass not yet wholly dry, and where an oak-tree shaded a wide space with its low horizontal branches. Fan thanked her, and dropping her book rambled off by herself, happy in her flower-hunting, and forgetting all about the magnificent things she had been reading. Two or three times she returned to the spot where Constance sat reading, with her hands full of flowers and grasses, and after depositing them on the turf went away to gather more. Finally she sat down on the grass, took off her hat and gloves, and set to work arranging her spoils. This took her a long time, and after making them up two or three times in various ways she still seemed dissatisfied. At length she tried a fresh plan, and discarding all the red, yellow, and purple flowers, she made a loose bunch of the blue and white only, using only those fine open grass-spears with hair-like stems and minute flowers that look like mist on the grass. The effect this time was very pretty, and when she had finished her work she sat for some time admiring it, her head a little on one side and holding the bunch well away from her. She did not know how beautiful she herself looked at that moment, how the blue and white flowers and misty grasses had lent, as it were, a new grace to her form and countenance--a flower-like expression that was sweet to see. Looking up all at once she encountered her companion's eyes fixed earnestly on her face. It was so unexpected that it confused her a little, and she reddened and dropped her eyes. “Forgive me, Fan, for watching your face,” said Constance. “When I looked at you I wondered whether it would not be best to tell you what I was thinking of--something about you.” “About me? Will you tell me, Miss Churton?” returned Fan, a half-suppressed eagerness in her voice, as if this approach to confidence had fluttered her heart with pleasure. “But if I tell you what was in my mind, Fan, I should have to finish by asking you a question; and perhaps you would not like to be asked.” “I think I can answer any question, Miss Churton, unless it is about--how we lived at home before Miss Starbrow took me to live with her. She wishes me not to speak of that, but to forget it.” Constance listened with softening eyes, wondering what that sorrowful past had been, which had left no trace on the sweet young face.