“Oh, indeed! the Grange is very beautiful, is it not?”
“Very,” said Flora. “Good-morning.”
Flora had a little uneasiness in her conscience, but it was satisfactory to have put down Louisa Anderson, who never could aspire to an intimacy with Miss Rivers. Her little sister looked up—“Why, Flora, have you seen the Grange?”
“No, but papa and Norman said so.”
And Blanche showed that the practical lesson on the pomps of the world was not lost on her, by beginning to wish they were as rich as Miss Rivers. Flora told her it was wrong to be discontented, but the answer was, “I don’t want it for myself, I want to have pretty things to give away.”
And her mind could not be turned from the thought by any attempt of her sister. Even when they met Dr. May coming out of the hospital, Blanche renewed the subject. She poured out the catalogue of Miss Rivers’s purchases, making appealing attempts at looking under his spectacles into his eyes, and he perfectly understood the tenor of her song.
“I have had a sight, too, of little maidens preparing Easter gifts,” said he.
“Have you, papa? What were they? Were they as nice as Miss Rivers’s?”
“I don’t know, but I thought they were the best sort of gifts, for I saw that plenty of kind thought and clever contrivance went to them, ay, and some little self-denial too.”
“Papa, you look as if you meant something; but ours are nothing but nasty old rubbish.”