The next day at breakfast Mrs. Burton announced her intention of going to see Mrs. Alroy instead of attending church, and said that if she were not home to dinner they might know she had thought it necessary to remain.
"Mayn't I go with you, mamma?" asked Winnifred.
"I think it would not be best for either Ernestine or yourself, Winnie, and certainly not for Mrs. Alroy."
Winnie at once saw that her mother was right, and instead of demurring, she went and gathered some beautiful clusters of lilacs for Ernestine, and cut the one white rose in bloom on her window-sill to send to Mrs. Alroy.
Mrs. Burton set off, taking a basket of fruit and the flowers, but she sighed as she turned the corner leading to Mrs. Alroy's, for she felt that the fruit would never refresh the world-weary woman for whom it was intended.
When she reached her destination she glanced apprehensively up to the second-story windows, for, although she said nothing about it to Winnie, she had on the previous day given up all hope of Mrs. Alroy's recovery. But the sorrowful banner which she had dreaded to see was not there, and she breathed more freely as she passed up the stairs.
In answer to her low knock the door was opened by Ernestine, who smiled as Mrs. Burton took her hand, a sad little smile of welcome which went to her visitor's heart.
"Mamma is resting quite easily now, but she passed a painful night. I will tell the nurse you are here. How beautiful the flowers and fruit are!" she said, as Mrs. Burton handed the basket to her.
"Yes, dear; the lilacs are for you—you know their odor is too strong for a sick-room—but Winnie sent this rose from her own little monthly to your mother."
Ernestine's lips quivered, as she took the rose without speaking, and went into the little bedroom, closing the door gently behind her.