“I feel so many wants,” she said, “that I never had before.”
While Alice was singing, Helen stole softly behind Mittie, and gently put the flowers on her hair.
“I have stolen your roses,” she whispered, “but I do not mean to keep them.”
Mittie’s first impulse was to toss them upon the floor, but something in the eye of Clinton arrested her. She dared not do it. And looking steadfastly downward, outblushed the roses on her brow.
The cloud appeared to have passed away, and the family party that surrounded the breakfast table was a gay and happy one.
“I told you,” said Mr. Gleason, placing Helen beside him, and smiling affectionately on her gladsome countenance, “that we should have a very different looking girl this morning from our poor, little sick traveler. All Helen wants is the air of home to revive her. Who would want to see a more rustic looking lassie than she is now?”
“I should like to see how Helen would look now in a yellow flannel robe,” said Louis, mischievously, “and whether she will make as great a sensation on her entrance into society as she did when she burst into this room in such an impromptu manner?”
The remembrance of the yellow flannel robe, and the eventful evening to which Louis alluded, was associated with the mother whom she had never ceased to mourn, and Helen bent her head to hide the tears which gathered into her eyes.
“You are not angry, gentle sister?” said Louis, seeking her downcast face.
“Helen was never angry in her life,” cried her father, “it is her only fault that she has not anger enough in her nature for self-preservation.”