“We have one thing more to do though,” she said, “come and help me to pick some wild-flowers—the smallest we can find.”
Having collected a number, she neatly formed a pretty little wreath.
“The French, and other people I have read of, have the custom of placing wreaths of flowers on the tombs of their friends, and so that is why I thought of putting one on Pecksy’s grave,” she observed. “I might have picked some from the garden, but I think wild-flowers are more suited to the little bird.”
She stood gazing at the spot, after she had deposited the wreath for a minute or two.
“There, we can do no more,” she said, with a sigh, as she took Norman’s hand. “We will go home now, and, O Norman, if you will try to be a good boy, and love me and everybody else, I shall not mind so much having lost dear little Pecksy.”
Chapter Ten.
The Dream.
Norman walked on by the side of his sister towards the house without speaking. Her heart was too full to say anything more. She found it, indeed, very difficult to forgive her brother from the bottom of her heart, and to love him notwithstanding all he had done.