It was Tuesday afternoon in the week following Easter week, and Mrs. Heritage and her daughter were together in the tiny drawing-room of their house in York Road, when a knock at the street door made them turn and look at each other in surprise. “Whoever can it be, mumsie darling?” exclaimed Marielle, pausing in her occupation of arranging bunches of yellow daffodils in brown jars on the mantelpiece. Fresh and fair and sweet as the Lent lilies, some of which she had pinned in the bosom of her dress, looked the girl herself, as she stood there in her simple black gown, which only served to set off her delicate complexion to greater advantage. “I’m sure I don’t know, dearie. It is not very likely to be a visitor for us any way, since very few of our old friends seem to care to trouble themselves about calling nowadays. It was different when your father was alive.” And Mrs. Heritage’s lips quivered a little as the recollection of social triumphs, long gone by, flashed through her mind. How true it is that “a sorrow’s crown of sorrow is remembering happier things!” Marielle had only time to cast a loving glance at her mother in answer, for the opening of the door and a slight rustle outside warned her that a visitor was approaching. “Mrs. Duncan!” was announced by the little maid who, with faithful old Mysie the cook, constituted the whole of the domestic establishment at No. 27. With stately courtesy Marielle’s mother rose to receive the doctor’s wife, her manner insensibly thawing however, under the influence of her visitor’s winning smile. “I am so glad to find you at home,” began Mrs. Duncan as soon as she was seated. Then, noticing that Marielle dropped the rest of the flowers she was holding on to a newspaper which she had spread upon a chair near, “Please do not let me interrupt you, Miss Heritage. Will you not go on arranging your flowers?” “I shall do so with pleasure if you do not mind,” replied Marielle brightly, “only I fear I shall have to turn my back upon you now and again during the performance.” “Oh, never mind that, it will be reward enough to see the effects of your handiwork when finished. I am so fond of daffodils. They are my favourite flowers.” “And mine also,” returned Marielle, pleased at the mutual taste. Then—smiling and holding a big bunch towards Mrs. Duncan—“Aren’t these beauties too? I saw them as I was coming back from Forman’s this morning, and I could not resist the temptation of bringing some home with me. They look so bright they are quite cheering. I always think yellow flowers are like sunlight in a room.” “They are indeed,” assented Mrs. Duncan, lifting her gaze from the flowers in order to contemplate the face bending over her.