nicest bits for Bee, with a care he never showed in helping her. Rosy
was not the least greedy--she would have been ready and pleased to
give away anything, _so long_ as she got the credit of it, and
was praised and thanked, but to be treated second-best in the way in
which she chose to imagine she was being treated--_that_, she
could not and would not stand. She sat through luncheon with a black
look on her pretty face; so that Mr. Furnivale, whom she was beside,
found her much less pleasant to talk to than Bee opposite, though Bee
herself was less bright and merry than usual.

Mrs. Vincent felt glad that no more was said about Aunt Edith's
coming. She felt that she did not wish Rosy to hear of it, and yet she
did not like to ask Mr. Furnivale not to mention it, as it seemed
ungrateful to think or speak of a visit from Miss Vincent except with
pleasure. After luncheon, when they were again in the drawing-room,
Mr. Furnivale came up to her with a small parcel in his hand.

"I am so sorry," he began, with a little hesitation, "I am so sorry
that I did not know Beata Warwick was with you. Cecy had no idea of
it, and she begged me to give _your_ little girl this present we
bought for her in Venice, and now I don't half like giving it to the
one little woman when I have nothing for the other."

He opened the parcel as he spoke; it contained a quaint-looking little
box, which in its turn, when opened, showed a necklace of glass beads
of every imaginable colour. They were not very large--each bead
perhaps about the size of a pea--of a large pea, that is to say. And
some of them were long, not thicker, but twice as long as the others.
I can scarcely tell you how pretty they were. Every one was different,
and they were beautifully arranged so that the colours came together