This was the state of affairs on a certain soft wet day when the family were all within doors. Connie had exhausted all her means of amusement in the morning. When the afternoon came, with its long, dull, uneventful hours, she had nothing better to do than to fling herself upon Miss Vivian, upon whom she had a special claim. She came to Mary's room, disturbing the strange quietude of that place, and amused herself looking over all the trinkets and ornaments that were to be found there, all of which were associated to Mary with her godmother. Connie tried on the bracelets and brooches which Mary in her deep mourning had not worn, and asked a hundred questions. The answer which had to be so often repeated, "That was given to me by my godmother," at last called forth the child's remark, "How fond your godmother must have been of you, Miss Vivian! She seems to have given you everything--" "Everything!" cried Mary, with a full heart. "And yet they all say she was not kind enough," said little Connie,--"what do they mean by that? for you seem to love her very much still, though she is dead. Can one go on loving people when they are dead?" "Oh yes, and better than ever," said Mary; "for often you do not know how you loved them, or what they were to you, till they are gone away." Connie gave her governess a hug and said, "Why did not she leave you all her money, Miss Vivian? everybody says she was wicked and unkind to die without--" "My dear," cried Mary, "do not repeat what ignorant people say, because it is not true." "But mamma said it, Miss Vivian." "She does not know, Connie,--you must not say it. I will tell your mamma she must not say it; for nobody can know so well as I do,--and it is not true--" "But they say," cried Connie, "that that is why she can't rest in her grave. You must have heard. Poor old lady, they say she cannot rest in her grave, because--" Mary seized the child in her arms with a pressure that hurt Connie. "You must not! You must not!" she cried, in a sort of panic. Was she afraid that some one might hear? She gave Connie a hurried kiss, and turned her face away, looking out into the vacant room. "It is not true! it is not true!" she cried, with a great excitement and horror, as if to stay a wound. "She was always good, and like an angel to me. She is with the angels. She is with God. She cannot be disturbed by anything--anything! Oh, let us never say, or think, or imagine--" Mary cried. Her cheeks burned, her eyes were full of tears. It seemed to her that something of wonder and anguish and dismay was in the room round her,--as if some one unseen had heard a bitter reproach, an accusation undeserved, which must wound to the very heart. Connie struggled a little in that too tight hold. "Are you frightened, Miss Vivian? What are you frightened for? No one can hear; and if you mind it so much, I will never say it again." "You must never, never say it again. There is nothing I mind so much," Mary said.