Of course she could not; but this obliged her, in common courtesy, to listen the second time, which was all I wanted.  Then I rose.

She went with me to the door, saying, “I am sorry to give so much trouble.  You are very kind to take so much for me.”

“It will be a ‘joyful trouble,’ if it does you good.”

“You are very kind to me.  Do you like roses?”

“Indeed I do.  Do not you?”

“I don’t know.  I used to.”

There were three blossoms and one bud on a monthly rose-bush, which stood in an earthen pot by the front door.  In an instant she had gathered them all, in spite of my protestations.  She added two or three from a heliotrope, and the freshest sprigs from a diosma, a myrtle, and a geranium, all somewhat languishing, and tied them together for me with a long blade of grass.

“It is plain,” said I, as I thanked her, “that you still care enough about flowers to arrange them most sweetly.  These look as if they were sitting for their picture.  I should like to paint them just as they are.”

“Can you paint?”

“A little.  Cannot you?”

“No; I can’t do anything.”

“Shall we make a bargain, then?” I ventured to say, as she looked and seemed so much like the poor baby the Doctor had called her.  “We will each of us try to do something for the other.  If I succeed in painting your flowers, and you succeed in following your directions, you shall have the picture.”

She blushed deeply, looked half ashamed and half gratified, but altogether more alive than she had done till now, and finally managed to stammer out:  “It’s too good an offer—­too kind—­to refuse; but it’s more than I deserve, a great deal.  So I’ll try to mind Dr. Physick, to please you; and then—­if you liked to give me the picture, I should prize it very much.”

I nodded, laughed, went home, put the flowers in water on Julia’s work-table, read to her, and went into the heart of the town to do some shopping for her.  After our early dinner, I said I was a little tired; and she drove with her husband.  I took out my paper, brushes, and palette, set Nelly’s nosegay in a becoming light, and began to rub my paints; when wheels and hoofs came near and stopped, and presently the door-bell rang.

“Are the ladies at home?” asked a smooth, silvery, feminine voice, with a peculiarly neat, but unaffected enunciation.

“No’m, he ain’t,” returned the portress, mechanically; “an’ he’s druv Missis out, too.  Here’s the slate; or Miss Kitty could take a message, I s’pose, without she’s went out lately ago.”

“Take this card,” resumed the first voice, “if you please, to Miss Morne, and say that, if she is not engaged, I should be glad to see her.”

I rose in some confusion, pushed my little table into the darkest corner of the room, received the white card from Rosanna’s pink paw, in which it lay like cream amidst five half-ripe Hovey’s seedlings, read “Miss Dudley” upon it, told Rosanna to ask her to please to walk in, and took up my position just within the door, in a state of some palpitation.