She was soon busy with a heap of papers swept into a corner of the room she used to occupy.  They were covered with sketches of leaves and flowers, and embroidery-patterns, and other devices with which she had amused herself in those days.  Among them she was delighted to find the head and shoulders of Thistle, with a garland round his neck.  In Rosa’s sleeping-room, an old music-book, hung with cobwebs, leaned against the wall.

“O Mamita Lila, I am glad to find this!” exclaimed Flora.  “Here is what Rosa and I used to sing to dear papa when we were ever so little.  He always loved old-fashioned music.  Here are some of Jackson’s canzonets, that were his favorites.”  She began to hum, “Time has not thinned my flowing hair.”  “Here is Dr. Arne’s ‘Sweet Echo.’  Rosa used to play and sing that beautifully.  And here is what he always liked to have us sing to him at sunset.  We sang it to him the very night before he died.”  She began to warble, “Now Phoebus sinketh in the west.”  “Why, it seems as if I were a little girl again, singing to Papasito and Mamita,” said she.

Looking up, she saw that Mrs. Delano had covered her face with her handkerchief; and closing the music-book, she nestled to her side, affectionately inquiring what had troubled her.  For a little while her friend pressed her hand in silence.

“O darling,” said she, “what a strange, sad gift is memory!  I sang that to your father the last time we ever saw the sunset together; and perhaps when he heard it he used to see me sometimes, as plainly as I now see him.  It is consoling to think he did not quite forget me.”

“When we go home, I will sing it to you every evening if you would like it, Mamita Lila,” said Flora.

Her friend patted her head fondly, and said:  “You must finish your researches soon, darling; for I think we had better go to Magnolia Lawn to see if Tom and Chloe can be found.”

“How shall we get there?  It’s too far for you to walk, and poor Thistle’s gone,” said Flora.

“I have sent Mr. Jacobs to the plantation,” replied Mrs. Delano, “and I think he will find some sort of vehicle.  Meanwhile, you had better be getting together any little articles you want to carry away.”

As Flora took up the music-book, some of the loose leaves fell out, and with them came a sketch of Tulee’s head, with the large gold hoops and the gay turban.  “Here’s Tulee!” shouted Flora.  “It isn’t well drawn, but it is like her.  I’ll make a handsome picture from it, and frame it, and hang it by my bedside, where I can see it every morning.  Dear, good Tulee!  How she jumped up and kissed us when we first arrived here.  I suppose she thinks I am dead, and has cried a great deal about little Missy Flory.  O, what wouldn’t I give to see her!”