I had never been a beauty and had never thought myself one, but I had been very different from this.  It was all gone now.  Heaven was so good to me that I could let it go with a few not bitter tears and could stand there arranging my hair for the night quite thankfully.

One thing troubled me, and I considered it for a long time before I went to sleep.  I had kept Mr. Woodcourt’s flowers.  When they were withered I had dried them and put them in a book that I was fond of.  Nobody knew this, not even Ada.  I was doubtful whether I had a right to preserve what he had sent to one so different—­whether it was generous towards him to do it.  I wished to be generous to him, even in the secret depths of my heart, which he would never know, because I could have loved him—­could have been devoted to him.  At last I came to the conclusion that I might keep them if I treasured them only as a remembrance of what was irrevocably past and gone, never to be looked back on any more, in any other light.  I hope this may not seem trivial.  I was very much in earnest.

I took care to be up early in the morning and to be before the glass when Charley came in on tiptoe.

“Dear, dear, miss!” cried Charley, starting.  “Is that you?”

“Yes, Charley,” said I, quietly putting up my hair.  “And I am very well indeed, and very happy.”

I saw it was a weight off Charley’s mind, but it was a greater weight off mine.  I knew the worst now and was composed to it.  I shall not conceal, as I go on, the weaknesses I could not quite conquer, but they always passed from me soon and the happier frame of mind stayed by me faithfully.

Wishing to be fully re-established in my strength and my good spirits before Ada came, I now laid down a little series of plans with Charley for being in the fresh air all day long.  We were to be out before breakfast, and were to dine early, and were to be out again before and after dinner, and were to talk in the garden after tea, and were to go to rest betimes, and were to climb every hill and explore every road, lane, and field in the neighbourhood.  As to restoratives and strengthening delicacies, Mr. Boythorn’s good housekeeper was for ever trotting about with something to eat or drink in her hand; I could not even be heard of as resting in the park but she would come trotting after me with a basket, her cheerful face shining with a lecture on the importance of frequent nourishment.  Then there was a pony expressly for my riding, a chubby pony with a short neck and a mane all over his eyes who could canter—­when he would—­so easily and quietly that he was a treasure.  In a very few days he would come to me in the paddock when I called him, and eat out of my hand, and follow me about.  We arrived at such a capital understanding that when he was jogging with me lazily, and rather obstinately, down some shady lane, if I patted his neck and said, “Stubbs, I am surprised you don’t canter when you know