in the prettiest possible way. One was pale blue with little tiny
flowers, pink or rose-coloured raised upon it; one was white with a
sort of rainbow glistening of every colour through it; two or three
were black, but with a different tracery, gold or red or bright green,
on each; and some were a kind of mixture of colours and patterns which
seemed to change as you looked at them, so that you could _fancy_
you saw flowers, or figures, or tiny landscapes even, which again
disappeared--and no two the same.

"Oh how lovely," exclaimed Rosy's mother, "how very, very pretty."

"Yes," said Mr. Furnivale, "they _are_ pretty. And they are now
rare. These are really old, and the imitation ones, which they make in
plenty, are not half so curious. Cecy thought they would take a
child's fancy."

"More than a _child's_," said Mrs. Vincent, smiling. "I think
they are lovely--and what a pretty ornament they will be--fancy them
on a white dress!"

"I am only sorry I have not two of them," said Mr. Furnivale, "or at
least _something_ else for the other little girl. You would not
wish me, I suppose, to give the necklace to Beata instead of to Rosy?"
he added.

Now Mrs. Vincent's own feeling was almost that she _would_ better
like it to be given to Beata. She was very unselfish, and her natural
thought was that in anything of the kind, Bee, the little stranger,
the child in her care, whose mother was so far away, should come
first. But there was more to think of than this feeling of hers--