“Rossie, you are a little thing, not much bigger than my thumb, but you have more sense than many older girls. Tell me, then, if you know, is it bad taste to be overdressed in a picture, and is it a crime, a sin, to wear bogus jewelry?” She did not at all know at what he was aiming, and, pleased with the compliment to her wisdom, answered, with great gravity: “Not a crime to wear flash jewelry,—no. I wore a brass ring once till it blacked my finger. I wore a glass breast-pin, too, which cost me twenty-five cents, till your mother said it was foolish, and not like a lady. But I do not think it’s a crime; it’s only _second-classy_. A great many do it, and I shouldn’t wonder a bit if,”—here the little lady looked very wise, and lifted her forefinger by way of emphasis—“I shouldn’t wonder a bit if this chain and cross were both shams, for now that I look at her more closely, she looks like a sham, too.” Rosamond’s prospect for a ring was gone forever, and Everard’s voice trembled as he took back his picture, and said: “Thank you, Rossie, for telling me what you thought. Maybe she is a sham. Most things are in this world, I find.” Then he walked rapidly away, while Rossie stood looking after him and wondering if he was angry with her, and who the young girl was, and if he really liked her. “I hope not,” she thought, “for though she is very handsome, there is something about her which does not seem like Mr. Everard and Miss Beatrice. They ought to go together; they must; it is so suitable;” and having settled the future of Beatrice and Everard to her own satisfaction, the little girl resumed her work among the flowers, and did not see Everard again until suppertime, when he looked so pale and tired that even his father noticed it and asked if he were sick.