'What beautiful roses! He must have remembered it was my birthday; how kind of him, Chriss. I must come down and thank him.'
'You must wear some in honour of the occasion—do, Aunt Milly; this deep crimson one will look so pretty on your gray silk dress; and you must put on the silver locket, with the blue velvet, that we all gave you.'
'Nonsense,' returned Mildred, blushing; but Chriss was inexorable.
Dr. Heriot looked up for the minute fairly startled when Mildred came in with her pink cheeks and her roses. Chriss's artful fingers, bent on mischief, had introduced a bud among the thick braids; the pretty brown hair looked unusually soft and glossy; the rarely seen dimple was in full play.
'You have done honour to my roses, I see,' he said, as Mildred thanked him, somewhat shyly, and joined the group round Olive.
The drawing-room table was heaped over with the new-smelling, little green volumes. As Mildred approached, Olive held out one limp soft copy with a hand that shook perceptibly.
'It has come at last, and on your birthday too; I am so glad,' she whispered as Mildred kissed her.
A soft light was in the girl's eyes, two spots of colour burnt in her usually pale cheeks, her hand closed and unclosed nervously on the arm of her chair.
'There, even Marsden says they are beautiful, and he does not care much for poetry,' broke in Richard, triumphantly. 'Livy, it has come to this, that I am proud of my sister.'
'Hush, please don't talk so, Cardie,' remonstrated Olive with a look of distress.