a flower?” I said—­and got to the window unsuspected, in that way.  Instead of taking away a flower, I added one, in the shape of another book from my bag, which I left, to surprise my aunt, among the geraniums and roses.  The happy thought followed, “Why not do the same for her, poor dear, in every other room that she enters?” I immediately said good-bye; and, crossing the hall, slipped into the library.  Samuel, coming up to let me out, and supposing I had gone, went down-stairs again.  On the library table I noticed two of the “amusing books” which the infidel doctor had recommended.  I instantly covered them from sight with two of my own precious publications.  In the breakfast-room I found my aunt’s favourite canary singing in his cage.  She was always in the habit of feeding the bird herself.  Some groundsel was strewed on a table which stood immediately under the cage.  I put a book among the groundsel.  In the drawing-room I found more cheering opportunities of emptying my bag.  My aunt’s favourite musical pieces were on the piano.  I slipped in two more books among the music.  I disposed of another in the back drawing-room, under some unfinished embroidery, which I knew to be of Lady Verinder’s working.  A third little room opened out of the back drawing-room, from which it was shut off by curtains instead of a door.  My aunt’s plain old-fashioned fan was on the chimney-piece.  I opened my ninth book at a very special passage, and put the fan in as a marker, to keep the place.  The question then came, whether I should go higher still, and try the bed-room floor—­at the risk, undoubtedly, of being insulted, if the person with the cap-ribbons happened to be in the upper regions of the house, and to find me put.  But oh, what of that?  It is a poor Christian that is afraid of being insulted.  I went upstairs, prepared to bear anything.  All was silent and solitary—­it was the servants’ tea-time, I suppose.  My aunt’s room was in front.  The miniature of my late dear uncle, Sir John, hung on the wall opposite the bed.  It seemed to smile at me; it seemed to say, “Drusilla! deposit a book.”  There were tables on either side of my aunt’s bed.  She was a bad sleeper, and wanted, or thought she wanted, many things at night.  I put a book near the matches on one side, and a book under the box of chocolate drops on the other.  Whether she wanted a light, or whether she wanted a drop, there was a precious publication to meet her eye, or to meet her hand, and to say with silent eloquence, in either case, “Come, try me! try me!” But one book was now left at the bottom of my bag, and but one apartment was still unexplored—­the bath-room, which opened out of the bed-room.  I peeped in; and the holy inner voice that never deceives, whispered to me, “You have met her, Drusilla, everywhere else; meet her at the bath, and the work is done.”  I observed a dressing-gown thrown across a chair.  It had a pocket in it, and in that pocket I put my last book.  Can words express my exquisite sense of duty done, when I had slipped out of the house, unsuspected by any of them, and when I found myself in the street with my empty bag under my arm?  Oh, my worldly friends, pursuing the phantom, Pleasure, through the guilty mazes of Dissipation, how easy it is to be happy, if you will only be good!