Flora's unfinished embroidery still remained in the frame, with the needle in the last stitch of a blue forget-me-not.

Over the mirror was a cluster of blush-roses she had made.

On the wall was a spray of sea-moss she had pressed and surrounded with a garland of small shells.

By the door was a vine she had transplanted from the woods; and under a tree opposite was a turf seat where she used to sit sketching the cottage, and Tulee, and Thistle, and baskets of wild-flowers she had gathered.

The sight of these things continually brought up visions of the loving and beautiful child, who for so many years had slept nestling in her arms, and made the days tuneful with her songs.