He wanted me to wear them to-night.

He says I can have them all now.

She must have been very beautiful, Harry--and just think, dear--she was only a few years older than I am when she died.

Sometimes when I wear her things and get to thinking about her, and remember how young and beautiful she was and how unhappy her life, it seems as if I must be unhappy myself--somehow as if it were not right to have all this happiness when she had none." There was a note of infinite pathos in her voice--a note one always heard when she spoke of her mother.

Had Harry looked deeper into her eyes he might have found the edges of two tears trembling on their lids.
"She never was as beautiful as you, my darling--nobody ever was--nobody ever could be!" he cried, ignoring all allusion to her mother.