“Poor little thing!” Mrs. Roberts sighed.

“Such a name!  I detest fancy names.  Rosalind!” Miss Betty rose.

“A good old English name and very pretty, I think.  Was it her mother’s?”

“I suppose so, but I don’t know.  Yes, I must go; Sophy will think I am lost.  Good-by,” and Miss Betty stepped briskly down the path.

The gate had hardly closed when Maurice heard some one calling him.  Looking over his shoulder, he saw his sister Katherine beckoning.

“Maurice, Maurice, do come here; I want you to see something.”

Her tone impressed him as unduly mysterious.  “What is it?” he asked indifferently.

“Come, and I’ll show you.”

“I sha’n’t come till you tell me,” he persisted.

“Oh, I think you might, because if I stop to tell you she may be gone.”

“Who’ll be gone?  You might have told it twice over in this time.”

“The girl I want you to see,” explained Katherine, drawing nearer in desperation.  “Did you know there was a girl next door?”

“Yes, of course.”  There was nothing in Maurice’s tone to indicate how brief a time had passed since this information had been acquired.

“Truly?  I don’t believe it,” Katherine faltered.

“She is Mrs. Whittredge’s granddaughter, and her name is Rosalind, so now!”

Privately, Katherine thought her brother’s power of finding things out, little short of supernatural.  “Don’t you want to see her?” she asked meekly.  “There is a thin place in the hedge behind the calycanthus bush, and she is walking to and fro studying something.”  Would Maurice declare he had already seen this girl?

Maurice sat up and reached for a crutch that rested against the tree.  He had his share of curiosity.  He was a tall, well-grown boy of thirteen, and it was apparent as he swung himself after Katherine, that accident and not disease had caused his lameness.

Rosalind, studying her hymn all unconscious of observation, was a pleasant sight.

“Isn’t she pretty?” whispered Katherine, but Maurice silenced her so sternly she concluded he did not agree with her.

In reality he thought very much as she did, although he would not have used the same adjective.  There was something unusual about this girl.  Why it was, he did not understand, but she seemed somehow to belong in a special way to the sweet old garden with its June roses.  Maurice had fancies that would have astonished Katherine beyond measure if she could have known anything about them.  But how was she to know when he pinched her arm and looked sternly indifferent?

The tea bell called them back to the house; on the way Katherine’s enthusiasm burst forth afresh.

“Isn’t she sweet? and such a beautiful name—­Rosalind.  How old do you think she is? and do you suppose she is going to live there?  Oh, Maurice, shouldn’t you be afraid of Mrs. Whittredge?”