'But I pass on my luck to you. Keep it; I hope it may always spring up in your path as it has this day.'
She made no reply, but gathered a sprig of pink heath.
On reaching the gate of West Wyke Cicely met them; she had been looking out for their return.
'Voyez!' said Mirelle, 'I have picked a lovely bouquet of ferns and moss and wild flowers on my way. We have no ferns in France, at least I have never seen such. In this one particular you surpass us.'
She showed her bunch. The white heath was not there.
'Oh!' exclaimed Herring, incautiously, 'the best flower of all has fallen—the white heath.'
'So it is,' said Mirelle. 'I am sorry; my hand was full.'
'Shall I go back for it?'
'No, it has fallen in the mire, and is trodden under foot. I shall doubtless find my own good luck some day myself.'
CHAPTER VI.