One night Jasmine lay awake from the time she laid her head on the pillow till the first sun had dawned; then Primrose took fright, and began to resume her old gentle, but still firm authority.
"Jasmine," she said, "we have got our black dresses--they are made very neatly, and we have done them all ourselves.

Staying in the house this lovely weather won't bring dear mamma back again; we will have tea a little earlier than usual, and go for a walk this evening." Jasmine, whenever she could stop crying, had been longing for a walk, but had crushed down the desire as something unnatural, and disrespectful to dear mamma, but of course if Primrose suggested it it was all right.

Her face brightened visibly, and as to Daisy, she sat down and began to play with the kitten on the spot.
That evening the three desolate young creatures put on their new black dresses, and went down a long, rambling, charming country lane.

The air was delicious--Jasmine refused to cover her hot little face with a crape veil--they came back after their ramble soothed and refreshed.
As they were walking up the village street a girl of the name of Poppy, their laundress's child, stepped out of a little cottage, dropped a courtesy, and said, in a tone of delight-- "Oh, Miss Mainwaring, I'm glad to see you out; and Miss Jasmine, darling, the little canary is all reared and ready for you.

I took a sight of pains with him, and he'll sing beautiful before long.