"What was their names?" said Floss, nestling up closer on her aunt's knee, in evident anticipation of something very delightful. "Their names?" said Eugenia. "Why, let me see. There was Lady Evelina, she had blue eyes and light hair, and Lady Francesca, her sister, who had black eyes and hair; and then there were Flora and Lucy and Annette, all smaller dolls. And there was one doll we were very proud of, which a lady brought us from Paris, and we never called her anything but Poupee. And we had one dear old-fashioned wooden doll, with a merry face and red cheeks. We called her Mary Ann Jolly, and I almost think we loved her the best of all. Dear me," she broke off abruptly, almost forgetting the presence of the child on her knee, "how strange it is to remember all these things! How silly and happy we were! So long ago!" For "long ago" seem at nineteen the few short years dividing us from what we then call our childhood; though, further on our course, we look back and see that the childishness, the ignorance, the unreal estimates of ourselves and others were still clogging our steps, hindering our true progress--as, indeed, to a greater or less extent is the case to the very end of the toilsome journey. Happy those who keep beside them to that end some others of the companions who started with them at the first, the truthfulness and trust, the earnestness in the present, the yet not inconsistent faith in a far-off better future--a future when much of what perplexes us now shall be made plainer, when we shall be stronger to work, more unselfish to love. For a moment Eugenia sat silent. But "Tell me more, aunty, please!" begged Floss, tugging at her dress. And Eugenia set to work and delighted the little creature with a minute biography of each individual doll, ending up with a promise that when Floss came to pay her a visit, "some day," such of the venerable ladies as were yet in existence should be unearthed from the box in the garret of the Wareborough house, (where not so very long ago Eugenia had one day caught sight of their once familiar faces), and produced for the little girl's inspection. By the end of the half-hour agreed upon with nurse there were few traces of tears on Eugenia's face, and Floss's kiss and hug of ecstatic gratitude left a brightness behind them which somewhat surprised Mrs Eyrecourt, returning home with slightly contemptuous anticipation of the task before her of "looking after Beauchamp's wife; a girl who has seen and knows nothing, and is certain to be crying her eyes out because he has had to leave her." Eugenia was on the lawn at the front of the house when Gertrude drove up. "Such a delightful drive we have had," exclaimed Mrs Eyrecourt, throwing the reins to the groom and joining her sister-in-law. "I am so glad I went. It was quite a comfort to see Beauchamp start in good spirits. He has a painful task before him."