For several minutes Agnes sat upon the stairs leading up to the study-room, so disappointed and mortified that only anger kept her from tears. Down from this room came the low murmur of voices; and her ears recognised now that of Madeline or George, and now that of Miss Harper. How musical was the latter, compared with the sound of her mother’s rebuking tones that were still in her ears! In spite of pride and self-will, her heart acknowledged the contrast; and, with this acknowledgment, touches of shame were felt. Even with mean false accusation on her side, self-will had failed to triumph. Success would have blinded her to the quality of her own spirit; but failure made her vision clearer. All remained still in the mother’s chamber and still through the house, as the mortified girl sat almost crouching on the stairs, and quiet was only disturbed faintly by the muffled voices that were heard in the study-room. Agnes could not help but think, for passion was subsiding; and thought dwelt naturally upon the persons and circumstances by which passion had been aroused into turbulence. A contrast between the mother’s spirit and the spirit thus far shown by Miss Harper forced itself upon her mind, and she saw the beauty of the one and the deformity of the other. In spite of her pride, a feeling of respect for Miss Harper was born; and with this respect something of contempt for her weak, passionate mother found an existence. “Now tell us the story, won’t you, Miss Harper?” It was the voice of George, ringing down from the study-room. The lessons were over; and the promised story was to come. Scarcely conscious of what she was doing, Agnes moved quietly up the stairs, until she was near enough to the door of the study-room to hear distinctly. “There was once a little flower-bud.” Miss Harper began her story in a low voice, and Agnes leaned forward, listening earnestly. “It was very small, and two green leaves gathered their arms closely around it, for there was a hidden treasure of sweetness in the heart of that bud. One day the cold, angry wind came along, and wanted the bud to open her beautiful pink leaves and give out from her heart the sweet perfumes that were hidden there. He blew harshly upon her, throwing her little head first on one side and then upon the other, and called angrily for her to open, that her sweetness might breathe in his ugly face. But the two green leaves only hugged their arms closer around the bud. Then he dashed her head upon the ground, and tried to trample the life out of her; for he did not love her at all: he only loved himself. The light stem that held the bud did not break, but only bent down, and, when the cruel wind was gone, raised up again from the ground and lifted the bud into the warm sunshine that was coming abroad.