“From the market,” answered Lotty. “Aren’t they beautiful, Miss Freer? But they are really more from Sybil than from me. She thought of them first.” “Most from Uncle Ralph, Lotty,” interrupted Sybil, “he wouldn’t let me pay for them. They are Charlie’s mamma, Miss Freer, to make the room look pretty when she gets up in the afternoon. Won’t she be pleased?” “I sure she will, you dear children answered Marion. “They are lovely. We have never had such pretty ones before. And Cissy is so fond of flowers. Pray thank Sir Ralph very much for getting them, and let me kiss you, Sybil darling, for having thought of them. You too, dear Lotty. How early you must have got up!” “Oh, yes, we have been up two hours. We were so afraid of being too late to go to the market with uncle. All these flowers are for Charlie’s mamma, Miss Freer, but this one is for yourself, Uncle Ralph said,” and as Sybil spoke, she took out of a corner of her basket where it had been carefully placed, one perfectly pure white rose. Marion took it from her, and held it carefully. “Is it not a beauty?” said Lotty, but Miss Freer did not answer. She turned, and went out again on the terrace. There she stood for a moment, till Ralph, happening to look up, caught sight of her. His face flushed, and a smile came over it when he saw what she held in her hand. But he only bowed, and seemed to have no intention of entering the house. So she went back to the children and thanked them again for their pretty gift, and advised them not to keep their uncle waiting. When they were gone she at down to her solitary breakfast, with her heart full of strangely-mingled feelings; while Ralph walked home absent and preoccupied, and answering much at random to the incessant, chattering questions of his merry little nieces. It is curious how sometimes when we have made up our mind to a certain course of action, the most unexpected outward occurrences seem, as it were, to happen on purpose to confirm us in our resolution. So it seemed just now to Ralph. The English letters arrived this morning as he sat at breakfast, after his early visit to the market. Among them, to his surprise, he recognized one in the handwriting of his “old chief,” as he called him, Sir Archibald Cunningham. “Curious,” thought Ralph as he opened it. “Very, that I should hear from him just at this crisis. The last man on earth to write a private letter if he can avoid it.” Its contents were, in themselves, unimportant enough, merely requesting Sir Ralph to forward to him by post one or two additional notes on the neighbouring patois, which, when in England, he had not thoroughly revised. The gist of the letter, so far as Ralph was concerned, was contained in the postscript.