“The wild-flowers which you gathered this morning, my darling, in the meadow.”
“Oh, but won’t they all die on the way?”
“We will press them in a book first, to dry them, and then they will look lovely for years.”
“Poor flowers—all crushed down!” sighed little Grace.
“Only preserved,” said Clemence; and her words carried a deeper meaning to herself than that which reached the mind of the child.
“I wish I were rich—very rich!” cried little Grace, after a silent pause.
“And what would my May-blossom do with her riches?”
“I would send a cake—such a cake—to sister!” replied Grace, opening her little arms wide to give an idea of its size; “and it should be sugared all over!”
“Anything else?” inquired Clemence.
“I’d make dear Vincy happy—quite happy. He wants so much to go to college and be a clergyman, like Mr. Gray, and teach all the people to be good; but he says that he has not the money. Mamma, don’t you wish you had plenty of money?”