in approval of the renovation of the drawing-room, which was so
skilful that her first glance would have detected no alteration in
the subdued tones of paper, carpet, and chintz, so complete was their
loyalty to the spirit of perpetuity. Flora told no one of the pains
that, among her many cares, she had spent upon those tints, not so
much to gratify Ethel, as because her own wearied spirit craved the
repose of home sameness, nor how she had finally sent to Paris for
the paper that looked so quiet, but was so exquisitely finished, that
the whole room had a new air of refinement.

The most notable novelty was a water-coloured sketch, a labour of
love from the busy hands in New Zealand, which had stolen a few hours
from their many tasks to send Dr. May the presentment of his namesake
grandson. Little Dickie stood before them, a true son of the
humming-bird sprite, delicately limbed and featured, and with elastic
springiness, visible even in the pencilled outline. The dancing dark
eyes were all Meta's, though the sturdy clasp of the hands, and the
curl that hung over the brow, brought back the reflection of Harry's
baby days.

It would have been a charming picture, even if it had not been by
Meta's pencil, and of Norman's child, and it chained Ethel for more
than one interval of longing loving study.

Tom interrupted her in one of these contemplations. 'Poor Flora,' he
said, with more feeling than he usually allowed to affect his voice,
'that picture is a hard trial to her. I caught her looking at it for
full ten minutes, and at last she turned away with her eyes full of
tears.'