“Indeed,” and Agnes bridled haughtily; “I did not know that Guy was in the habit of sending bouquets to such as this Clyde girl. I really must report him to Miss Atherstone.” Guy’s seat was very near to Agnes, and, while a cloud overspread his fine features, he said to her in an aside: “Please say in your report that the worst thing about this _Clyde girl_ is that she aspires to be a teacher, and possibly a _governess_.” There was an emphasis on the last word which silenced Agnes and set her to beating her French boot on the carpet; while Guy, turning back to the doctor, replied to his remark: “She was pleased, then?” “Yes; she must be vastly fond of flowers, though I sometimes fancied that the fact of being noticed by you afforded almost as much satisfaction as the bouquet itself. She evidently regards you as a superior being, and Aikenside a second Paradise, and asked innumerable questions about you and Jessie, too.” “Did she honor _me_ with an inquiry?” Agnes asked, her tone indicative of sarcasm, though she was greatly interested as well as relieved by the reply. “Yes; she said she had heard that Jessie’s mother was a beautiful woman, and asked if you were not born in England.” “She’s mixed me up with Lucy. Guy, you must go down and enlighten her,” Agnes said, laughing merrily and appearing more at ease than she had before since Maddy Clyde had been the subject of conversation. Guy did not go down to Honedale—but fruit and flowers, and a bottle of rare old wine, found their way to the old red cottage, always brought by Guy’s man, Duncan, and always accompanied with Mr. Remington’s compliments. Once, hidden among the rosebuds, was a childish note from Jessie, some of it printed and some in the uneven hand of a child just commencing to write. It was as follows: “DEAR MADDY: “I think you have such a pretty name, and so does Guy, and so does the doctor, too. I want to come see you, but mamma won’t let me. I think of you ever so much, and so does Guy, I guess, for he sends you lots of things. Guy is a nice brother, and is most as old as mamma. Ain’t that funny? You know my _first_ ma is dead. She was Guy’s mother, and my papa was ever so old. The doctor tells us about you when he comes to Aikenside. I wish he’d come oftener, for I love him a bushel—don’t you? “Yours, respectfully, “JESSIE AGNES REMINGTON. “P. S.—I am going to put this in just for fun, right among the buds, where you must look for it.”