"No, my misses, only call my grandchild as you go 'long. I let her go
out to have a run in the sunshine this morning."

"I will send her to you; and to-morrow I think you will see Father
Fabian," said May, before she closed the door. And she went away,
wrapped as with a royal mantle, _in the blessings of the poor_.




CHAPTER VII.

THINGS OF TIME AND ETERNITY.

In a small and elegant _boudoir_, which opened into a conservatory, and
was crowded with articles of taste and _vertu_,--the gleanings of a tour
through Europe,--a lady, somewhat past the prime of life, leaned over an
_Or-molu_ table, arranging with exquisite touches, a quantity of splendid
flowers in a basket of variegated mosses which stood on it. There was a
look of high-bred indolence about her, and an expression of pride on her
countenance _so_ earthly, that even the passing stranger shrunk from it.
And, while with a fine eye for the harmony of colors, she blended the
gorgeous flowers together, weaving the dark mosses amidst them, until
they looked like a rare Flemish painting, the door opened, and a
distinguished-looking young gentleman came in--called her mother--kissed
her on the cheek, and threw himself with an easy air into a _fauteuil_.

"You see how busy I am, Walter, and until I am disengaged, look over
these new engravings. They are just from Paris," said the lady.