“Little, little ears!” Arthur had said, pretending to pinch them one evening, as Hetty sat beside him on the grass without her hat.  “I wish I had some pretty ear-rings!” she said in a moment, almost before she knew what she was saying—­the wish lay so close to her lips, it would flutter past them at the slightest breath.  And the next day—­it was only last week—­Arthur had ridden over to Rosseter on purpose to buy them.  That little wish so naively uttered seemed to him the prettiest bit of childishness; he had never heard anything like it before; and he had wrapped the box up in a great many covers, that he might see Hetty unwrapping it with growing curiosity, till at last her eyes flashed back their new delight into his.

No, she was not thinking most of the giver when she smiled at the ear-rings, for now she is taking them out of the box, not to press them to her lips, but to fasten them in her ears—­only for one moment, to see how pretty they look, as she peeps at them in the glass against the wall, with first one position of the head and then another, like a listening bird.  It is impossible to be wise on the subject of ear-rings as one looks at her; what should those delicate pearls and crystals be made for, if not for such ears?  One cannot even find fault with the tiny round hole which they leave when they are taken out; perhaps water-nixies, and such lovely things without souls, have these little round holes in their ears by nature, ready to hang jewels in.  And Hetty must be one of them:  it is too painful to think that she is a woman, with a woman’s destiny before her—­a woman spinning in young ignorance a light web of folly and vain hopes which may one day close round her and press upon her, a rancorous poisoned garment, changing all at once her fluttering, trivial butterfly sensations into a life of deep human anguish.

But she cannot keep in the ear-rings long, else she may make her uncle and aunt wait.  She puts them quickly into the box again and shuts them up.  Some day she will be able to wear any ear-rings she likes, and already she lives in an invisible world of brilliant costumes, shimmering gauze, soft satin, and velvet, such as the lady’s maid at the Chase has shown her in Miss Lydia’s wardrobe.  She feels the bracelets on her arms, and treads on a soft carpet in front of a tall mirror.  But she has one thing in the drawer which she can venture to wear to-day, because she can hang it on the chain of dark-brown berries which she has been used to wear on grand days, with a tiny flat scent-bottle at the end of it tucked inside her frock; and she must put on her brown berries—­her neck would look so unfinished without it.  Hetty was not quite as fond of the locket as of the ear-rings, though it was a handsome large locket, with enamelled flowers at the back and a beautiful gold border round the glass, which showed a light-brown slightly waving lock, forming a background for two little dark rings.