She had found an ox-daisy and a four-o'clock.
"Here! take my pretties," she said imperiously.
Sophia took them.
"They's to be blowed," said Dottie, not yet distinguishing duly the different uses of flowers or of words.
Sophia obediently blew, and the down of the four-o'clock was scattered into space; but the daisy, impervious to the blast, remained in the slender hand that held it.

Dottie looked at it with indignation.
"Blow again!" was her mandate, and Sophia, to please her, plucked the white petals one by one, so that they might be scattered.

It was not wonderful that, as she did so, the foolish old charm of her school-days should say itself over in her mind, and the lot fell upon "He loves me." "Who, I wonder ?" thought Sophia, lightly fanciful; and she did not care to think of the wealthy suitor she had cast aside.

Her mind glanced to Robert Trenholme.

"No," she thought, "he loves me not." She meditated on him a little.