Then, in her fanciful mood, she reproached herself for letting her unfortunate favourite speak to her only of him, and forgetting that it was Maurice who had obtained it for her, who had planted it, and would be sorry for its destruction.

She rose, and tried to lift the broken tree; but as she leaned over it, Maurice himself passed through the wicket, and came towards her.

She turned to meet him as if it were quite natural that he should come just then.
"Oh, Maurice, look! I am so sorry." "Your pet rose-tree?
But perhaps it will recover yet." He raised it carefully, while she stood looking on.
"It is not much broken, after all.

I will plant it again; and with plenty of support and shade, I think it will do." Lucia flew to bring her spade.

She held the tree, while Maurice carefully arranged its roots and piled the earth about them; the scattered leaves were picked up from the bed, and a kind of tent made with matting over the invalid; at last she found time to say, "But how did you happen to come just at the right moment ?" "I saw you from my window.