Jane had heard it all a dozen times before, and so had every other visitor at Rose Cottage, but to Lucy it was only confirmation of her latter-day opinion of her hostess.  Nothing, however, could be more gracious than the close attention which the young girl gave Mrs. Cavendish’s every word when the talk was again directed to her, bending her pretty head and laughing at the right time—­a courtesy which so charmed the dear lady that she insisted on giving first Lucy, and then Jane, a bunch of roses from her “own favorite bush” before the two girls took their leave.

With these evidences of her delight made clear, Lucy pushed Rex from her side—­he had become presuming and had left the imprint of his dusty paw upon her spotless frock—­and with the remark that she had other visits to pay, her only regret being that this one was so short, she got up from her seat on the step, called Meg, and stood waiting for Jane with some slight impatience in her manner.

Jane immediately rose from her chair.  She had been greatly pleaded at the impression Lucy had made.  Her manner, her courtesy, her respect for the older woman, her humoring her whims, show her to be the daughter of a Cobden.  As to her own place during the visit, she had never given it a thought.  She would always be willing to act as foil to her accomplished, brilliant sister if by so doing she could make other people love Lucy the more.

As they walked through the doctor’s study, Mrs. Cavendish preceding them, Jane lingered for a moment and gave a hurried glance about her.  There stood his chair and his lounge where he had thrown himself so often when tired out.  There, too, was the closet where he hung his coat and hat, and the desk covered with books and papers.  A certain feeling of reverence not unmixed with curiosity took possession of her, as when one enters a sanctuary in the absence of the priest.  For an instant she passed her hand gently over the leather back of the chair where his head rested, smoothing it with her fingers.  Then her eyes wandered over the room, noting each appointment in detail.  Suddenly a sense of injustice rose in her mind as she thought that nothing of beauty had ever been added to these plain surroundings; even the plants in the boxes by the windows looked half faded.  With a quick glance at the open door she slipped a rose from the bunch in her hand, leaned over, and with the feeling of a devotee laying an offering on the altar, placed the flower hurried on the doctor’s slate.  Then she joined Mrs. Cavendish.

Lucy walked slowly from the gate, her eyes every now and then turned to the sea.  When she and Jane had reached the cross-road that branched off toward the beach—­it ran within sight of Mrs. Cavendish’s windows—­Lucy said: 

“The afternoon is so lovely I’m not going to pay any more visits, sister.  Suppose I go to the beach and give Meg a bath.  You won’t mind, will you?  Come, Meg!”

“Oh, how happy you will make him!” cried Jane.  “But you are not dressed warm enough, dearie.  You know how cool it gets toward evening.  Here, take my cloak.  Perhaps I’d better go with you—­”