But when Lettie, next morning, prompted by a sudden caprice, ran “all the way” to the Lady’s Well, to gather some wild roses and the fragrant meadow-queen for Martha, she saw some one sitting on the stone where Lady Violet sat, and was only fortified by the bright daylight to approach. But it was Rose’s muslin gown, and not the silvery garments of the fairy lady, which lay upon the turf; and Rose was leaning with both her hands heavily upon the canopy of the well, and looking into the deep brushwood, as Lettie many a time had looked--though this was a deeper abstraction than even the long silent reveries of the poetic child. With a sudden consciousness that there lay some unknown sorrow here, the little girl came forward shyly, looking up with her wistful eyes in her sister’s face. It did not seem that she interrupted Rose’s thoughts, and Violet began silently to gather her flowers. There were some wild roses, half-opened buds, which could be carried even by a school girl, without risk of perishing, for one of the “young ladies” at Blaelodge, whom Lettie liked greatly, and who much desired some tangible memorial of the place whence the Lady Violet of Lettie’s oft-repeated story passed away; and a sweet fairy posie of the graceful queen of the meadow for Martha’s especial gratification, and some drooping powdery flowers of grass, from which the seed was falling, for Lettie herself. When they were all gathered, Lettie sat down softly on the grass at Rose’s feet, and laid the flowers in her lap, and was very quiet, venturing now and then a wistful glance up to the absorbed face above her. And by and by, the heavy leaning of Rose’s arms relaxed, and she leaned upon her knee instead, and looked down on Violet. “Lettie, I think my heart will break,” said Rose, with a low sigh; and again she put out her hand. She could not say so much to Martha: she could not tell it to another in all the wide world--for the shy heart would render no reason for its sudden grief; but she could say it to her little sister, who asked no reason--who did not speak at all in vain consolation, but who only looked up, with such a world of innocent sympathy and wonder in her dark, wistful eyes.