Flora drew a long breath. "That is it, is it?" she said, in a low voice, as she tied her nightcap, but it was rather as if she were speaking to herself than to me. "Cary, perhaps I had better answer you. I am afraid Miss Osborne is a very dangerous girl; and she would be more so than she is if she were a shade more clever, so as to hide her cards a little better. Don't tell her anything you can help." "But what shall I say if she asks me again? because she wanted me not to tell you that she had asked, but to get to know as if I wanted it myself." "Tell her to ask me," said Flora, with more spirit than I had expected from her. When Cecilia began again (as she did) asking me the same sort of things, I said to her, "Why don't you ask Cousin Flora instead of me? She knows so much more about it than I do." Cecilia put her hands on my shoulders and kissed me. "Because I like to ask you," said she, "and I should not like to ask her." My Aunt Kezia was just coming into the room. "Miss Cecilia, my dear," said she, "do you always think what you like?" "Of course, Mrs Kezia," said Cecilia, smiling at her. "Then you will be a very useless woman," said my aunt, "and not a very happy one neither." "Happy--ah!" said Cecilia, with a long sigh. "This world is not the place to find happiness." "No, it isn't," said my Aunt Kezia, "for people who spend all their time hunting for it. It is a deal better to let happiness hunt for you. You don't go the right way to get it, child." "I do not, indeed!" answered Cecilia, with a very sorrowful look. "Ah, Mrs Kezia, `the heart knoweth his own bitterness.' That is Scripture, I believe." "Yes, it does," said my aunt, "and it makes a deal of it, too." "Oh dear, Mrs Kezia!" cried Cecilia. "How could anybody make unhappiness?"