“No, we won’t,” said Jasmine, her eyes suddenly filling with tears, and her pettish mood changing to a tender and very sad one—­“those eggs were given for Daisy, and no one else shall eat them.  Do you know, Primrose, that Miss Egerton does not think Daisy at all strong?”

“Oh, she is mistaken,” said Primrose.  “No one who does not know her thinks Daisy strong; she has a fragile look, but it is only her look.  All my courage would go if I thought Daisy were ill—­she is not ill; look at her now, what a sweet color she has on her cheeks.”

“Miss Egerton says she is like a little sister of her own,” continued Jasmine.  Then she stopped suddenly.  “Oh!  Primrose, you are not going to cry? oh, don’t; it would be dreadful if you gave way!  No, Primrose, she is not like little Constance Egerton; she is just our own Daisy, who never looks strong, but who is very strong—­she shall never be cold, and she shall have all the nourishment—­you and I don’t mind how plainly we live, do we, Queen Rose?”

Primrose had quickly wiped away her sudden tears.  She rose to her feet, and, going up to Jasmine, gave her a hasty kiss.

“We’ll remember our good old resolution,” she said brightly, “not to grumble, not to fret, not to cry.  Ah! here is our dear little birdie waking from her sleep.  Now, Jasmine on with the coals, and let us have a merry blaze while I see to the supper—­porridge for you and me, and a nice fresh egg and a cup of warm milk for the Daisy-flower.”

“The Pink must have some milk too,” said Daisy, as she tumbled lazily out of her soft nest of cushions; “the Pink isn’t half as fat as she used to be—­I can feel all the bones down her spine—­I know she wants cream.  Oh, Primrose!  I had such a darling dream—­I thought the Prince came and found us!”

“The Prince, Daisy?”

“Yes; and he had the look of the gentleman we met long, long, long ago at St. Paul’s Cathedral!  Oh, Primrose, I’m so tired of London!”

“Never mind, darling,” answered Primrose; “I’m always telling you you are only seeing the shady side at present.  Only wait till Christmas comes, and Mr. Danesfield sends us our money.”

“I wrote another poem last night,” said Jasmine; “I called it ’The Uses of Adversity.’  It was very mournful indeed; it was a sort of story in blank verse of people who were cold and hungry, and I mixed up London fogs, and attic rooms, and curtains that were once white, and had now turned yellow, and sloppy streets covered with snow, with the story.  It was really very sad, and I cried a great deal over it.  I am looking out now for a journal which likes melancholy things to send it to.  I have not ventured to submit it to Miss Egerton, for she is so dreadfully severe, and I don’t think much of her taste.  She will never praise anything I do unless it is so simple as to be almost babyish.  Now ‘The Uses of Adversity’ is as far as possible formed on the model of Milton’s ’Paradise Lost’—­it is strong, but gloomy.  Shall I read it to you after supper, Primrose?”