There was no fault to be found with Mrs. Carleton's kindness when they were on the way. She held the forlorn little child tenderly in her arm, and told her how glad she was to have her with them, how glad she should be if she were going to keep her always; but her saying so only made Fleda cry, and she soon thought it best to say nothing. All the rest of the way Fleda was a picture of resignation; transparently pale, meek and pure, and fragile seemingly as the delicatest wood-flower that grows. Mr. Carleton looked grieved, and leaning forward he took one of her hands in his own and held it affectionately, till they got to the end of their journey. It marked Fleda's feeling towards him that she let it lie there without making a motion to draw it away. She was so still for the last few miles, that her friends thought she had fallen asleep; but when the carriage stopped and the light of the lantern was flung inside, they saw the grave hazel eyes broad open and gazing intently out of the window.
"You will order tea for us in your dressing-room, mother?" said Mr. Carleton.
"Us who is us?"
"Fleda and me, unless you will please to make one of the party."
"Certainly I will, but perhaps Fleda might like it better down stairs. Wouldn't you, dear?"
"If you please, Ma'am," said Fleda. "Wherever you please."
"But which would you rather, Fleda?" said Mr. Carleton.
"I would rather have it up-stairs," said Fleda, gently, "but it's no matter."
"We will have it up-stairs," said Mrs. Carleton. "We will be a nice little party up there by ourselves. You shall not come down till you like."
"You are hardly able to walk up," said Mr. Carleton, tenderly.
"Shall I carry you?"