The little girl came softly into the room, having already learned that a bounding step was not meet for "my lady's chamber."
"Rosa, listen; will you come with me to London, to ride in a fine coach drawn by four horses—to wear a velvet frock—see beautiful sights, and become a great lady. Will you, dear Rosa, and be my own little girl?"
"Oh, yes!" exclaimed the child, gleefully; "that I will; that would be so nice—a coach and four—a velvet frock—a great lady—oh! dear me!" The mother felt her limbs tremble, her heart sink. "Oh! my own dear mother, will not that be nice? and the beautiful sights you have told me of—St. Paul's and Westminster—oh! mother, we shall be so happy!"
"Not me, Rosa," answered Mrs. Lynne, with as firm a voice as she could command. "Now, listen to me: you might ride in a coach and four, instead of on your little pony—wear velvet instead of cotton—see St. Paul's and Westminster—but have no more races on the downs, no more peeping into birds' nests, no more seeing the old church, or hearing its Sabbath bells. You may become a great lady, but you must leave and forget your father and me."
"Leave you, and my father and brothers! You did not mean that surely—you could not mean that, my lady—could they not go with me?"
"That would be impossible!"
"Then I will stay here," said the little girl firmly; "I love them better than every thing else in the world. Thank you, dear lady, but I cannot leave them."
"Leave us, then, Rosa," said Helen, proudly. The child obeyed with a frightened look, wondering how she had displeased the "grand lady."
If Helen had been steeped to the very lips in misery, she could not have upbraided the world more bitterly than she did, giving vent to long pent-up feelings, and reproaching Rose, not only for her folly in not complying with her wish, but for her happiness and contentment, which, while she envied, she affected to despise.
"You cannot make me believe that the high-born and wealthy are what you represent," said her cousin. "A class must not be condemned because of an individual; and though I never felt inclined to achieve rank, I honour many of its possessors. It is the unsatisfied longing of your own heart that has made you miserable, dear Helen; and oh! let me entreat you, by the remembrance of our early years, to suffer yourself to enjoy what you possess."