"How sweetly pretty you look to-day, Joyce. I can't help saying so. Don't be angry. I want to read you some verses I have written, called, 'The Drooping Rosebud.'" And Charlotte took out of her pocket the crumpled page of a copy-book. "You had better not read it now, Charlotte; Aunt Letitia will expect us to go downstairs." "Only the first verse," Charlotte said, and then she began: "'She bent her head in sorrow, The pretty fragile rose; She languished for the morrow, Where light and gladness grows She languished for a rain drop To cheer her thirsty heart: She was so sad and weary; In joy she had no part. 'As the raindrop to the rosebud, So is his smile to me; As----'" Here Charlotte stopped and blushed. "You know who I mean by the rosebud, and who the raindrop is?" Joyce laughed merrily. "Oh, Charlotte, you must not come to me for sympathy. I can't understand such sentiment. You have never spoken to Mr. Bamfylde in your life." "_Not spoken_; no, but there is such a thing as the language of eyes. Joyce, you don't understand." "No, I don't; and I think, Charlotte, it is nonsense to waste your thoughts on Mr. Bamfylde, who probably has never given you a thought in his life." "I am not so sure about _thoughts_, dear. However, I see you don't care about it, or my verses, or me." "Come, Charlotte, don't be silly! Of course I care about you, but I don't think I am poetical or romantic. Indeed, we ought to go downstairs." "You must go first, and I will follow," said poor Charlotte, putting "The Drooping Rosebud" in her pocket again, with a sigh; and Joyce tripped downstairs alone. "Well, my little rustic," Miss Falconer said; "come and sit down by me, and tell me the news." "Melville came home last week," Joyce said. "He is determined to travel, and father did so want him to settle down at home and help him with the estate. But, oh! Aunt Lettice, nothing will ever make him into a farmer. He is dressed to-day, to come into Wells, like a fine gentleman. I get so angry with Melville, Aunt Lettice." "He will come round in time, my dear. Young men are often a little difficult to manage, and then sober down so wonderfully." "But Melville is twenty-three, nearly twenty-four, Aunt Lettice. Father has given him every advantage, and all he wished for, and now he says he cannot possibly live a country gentleman's life." "Oxford was a poor preparation for that life, I must own," said Miss Falconer; "only it was natural perhaps, that your father should yield to your mother's wishes." "Mother suffers the most," said Joyce hotly, "far, far the most. It makes me so angry when I think of the way mother is treated." "My dear child, she has spoiled Melville, and this is the result." "It would not be the result if Melville had an atom of gentleman-like feeling. Looking down on mother, who----" Joyce's voice faltered.