She did not say to herself that it was not wrong now for her to think of him. Love was a shy newcomer in her heart, too timid yet to own his presence there. The carriage rolled past and left him, then the young girl's thoughts turned back to Earle, and the quick tears sprang to her eyes. When they stopped at the cottage gate she was sobbing convulsively, against Norah's shoulder. Aunt Prue came out to meet them with a very sober face, and led them upstairs to Ladybird's room. Mrs. Winans rose with a cry of joy, and clasped her darling in her arms. Ladybird, who sat at the window looking very pale and pretty in a blue morning gown, turned aside with a repressed sob. Oh, how she envied Precious her sweet and loving mother, for her own young mother had died when her little one was born, and her child had never known the sweetness of maternal love. Perhaps Mrs. Winans thought of this, too, for when she had kissed and cried over Precious a little she led her forward to the window, saying tenderly: "I have found in Ladybird the daughter of the dearest girl friend I ever had, and we must both love her, Precious, for her mother's sake." "I love her already for her own," cried Precious, kissing Ladybird's white cheek fondly, and a sob rose in the little coquette's throat as she wondered if they would love her still if they ever found out how she had treated Earle, whom they loved so dearly. Alas, she loved him too--she realized it more fully now that he lay wounded, perhaps dying--and how she hated Jack Tennant, the man who held the promise of her hand. Why, she would die before she would marry such a wretch! CHAPTER XXII. ROSY DREAMS. "The child is a woman, the books may close over, For all the lessons are said."--JEAN INGELOW. The summer night had fallen softly at Rosemont, and all were asleep save the beautiful sisters in whose hearts burned the restless fire of love. Precious was alone in her airy white room, with the fragrant breeze straying into her windows with the moonlight--the moonlight so clear and white that Precious could read by its silvery rays the letter Bruce Conway had given her clandestinely to-day. It was from Lord Chester, and Precious had read it a dozen times before she retired and placed it beneath her pillow. She lay there all lovely and restless in the moonlight, her whole being flooded with a shy, ecstatic rapture over her first love-letter. At last she lifted the golden head and slipped the little white hand under the pillow, and drew it out to read again. "She took it in her trembling hands That poorly served her will, The wave of life on golden sands Stood for a moment still!" Lord Chester had written impulsively: