"Why didn't you say so before?" she inquired sharply; but the "fowling-piece" had wisely disappeared.
"I am very glad!" exclaimed Edith. "They have had plenty all winter, and you haven't had one. I am very glad it is yours, Fleda."
But such a shadow had come upon every other face that Fleda's pleasure was completely overclouded. She smelled at her roses, just ready to burst into tears, and wishing sincerely that they had never come.
"I am afraid, my dear Fleda," said Mrs. Evelyn, quietly going on with her breakfast, "that there is a thorn somewhere among those flowers."
Fleda was too sure of it; but not by any means the one Mrs.
Evelyn intended.
"He never could have got half those from his own green-house, Mamma," said Florence, "if he had cut every rose that was in it; and he isn't very free with his knife, either."
"I said nothing about anybody's greenhouse," said Mrs. Evelyn, "though I don't suppose there is more than one Lot in the city they could have come from."
"Well," said Constance, settling herself back in her chair and closing her eyes, "I feel extinguished! Mamma, do you suppose it possible that a hot cup of tea might revive me? I am suffering from a universal sense of unappreciated merit, and nobody can tell what the pain is that hasn't felt it."
"I think you are extremely foolish, Constance," said Edith. "Fleda hasn't had a single flower sent her since she has been here, and you have had them every other day. I think Florence is the only one that has a right to be disappointed."
"Dear Florence," said Fleda, earnestly, "you shall have as many of them as you please, to dress yourself and welcome!"