"Everyone is not so easily satisfied. I am quite weary of it, and think I must give a ball. That will afford a little excitement for some time to come, and please everybody except Mr. Hall; and he can go and look after his parishioners for that day."
Mason had now finished the last plait, and inquired what ornament her mistress intended wearing in her hair, as she must arrange it accordingly.
Mrs. Linchmore turned to Amy.
"Would you kindly bring the flowers on my work table yonder? and Mason wind the plaits round my head so as to hang rather low."
Amy crossed the room, and took the flower out of the tumbler. Could it be possible? She examined it closely. Yes, there was no mistaking it. It was the self-same spray Mr. Vavasour had gathered, and offered her an hour or two before; there were the delicate white blossoms he had so admired. A beautiful little flower, or rather spray, it was; but too small, too insignificant to be worn in that rich dark hair.
An unconscious smile hovered on her lips as she returned and gave it to Mason, who turned up her eyes on beholding it. That miserable little piece of green and white to adorn the plaits she had arranged? It was not worthy of a place there, but Mason dared not say so; she merely ventured on the enquiry as to whether Miss Neville had brought the right flower.
"Certainly," was the reply. "Place it on the left side, and almost as low down as the hair itself."
But Mason was cross, and pinned it in badly, she would not understand Mrs. Linchmore's directions.
"What are you doing! Mason; I never knew you so awkward. How badly you have arranged it; not in the least as I like."
"Mrs. Linchmore wishes the spray to hang a little lower," suggested Amy.