"They can't be mended," she continued, "but I will thread them again."
"I don't care about them, I'm sick of amber," I answered, consolingly. "You may have them, if you will."
"No. I must pay too great a price for them," she replied.
"Nonsense! when they break again, I'll pay you back," I said, without in the least knowing what she meant. "I didn't know you were too proud for a 'thank you!'"
She came up and put both her arms round my neck, laid her cheek beside mine a minute, kissed me, and went up-stairs. Lu always rather worshipped me.
Dressing my hair that night, Carmine, my maid, begged for the remnants of the bell-wort to "make a scent-bag with, Miss."
Next day, no Rose; it rained. But at night he came and took possession of the room, with a strange, airy gayety never seen in him before. It was so chilly, that I had heaped the wood-boughs, used in the yesterday's decorations, on the hearth, and lighted a fragrant crackling flame that danced up wildly at my touch,—for I have the faculty of fire. I sat at one side, Lu at the other, papa was holding a skein of silk for her to wind, the amber beads were twinkling in the firelight,—and when she slipped them slowly on the thread, bead after bead, warmed through and through by the real blaze, they crowded the room afresh with their pungent spiciness. Papa had called Rose to take his place at the other end of the silk, and had gone out; and when Lu finished, she fastened the ends, cut the thread, Rose likening her to Atropos, and put them back into her basket. Still playing with the scissors, following down the lines of her hand, a little snap was heard.
"Oh!" said Louise, "I have broken my ring!"
"Can't it be repaired?" I asked.
"No," she returned briefly, but pleasantly, and threw the pieces into the fire.