“Aren’t you afraid and lonely and unhappy?” she said, slowly, trying to understand and put herself in Lizzie’s place.

“Yes; but it’s no use.  I can’t help it, and may be things will get better by and by, and I’ll have my wish,” answered Lizzie, more hopefully, because Belle’s pity warmed her heart and made her troubles seem lighter.

“What is your wish?” asked Belle, hoping mamma wouldn’t come just yet, for she was getting interested in the stranger.

“To have a nice little room, and make flowers, like a French girl I know.  It’s such pretty work, and she gets lots of money, for every one likes her flowers.  She shows me how, sometimes, and I can do leaves first-rate; but—­”

There Lizzie stopped suddenly, and the color rushed up to her forehead; for she remembered the little rose in her pocket and it weighed upon her conscience like a stone.

Before Belle could ask what was the matter, Marie came in with a tray of cake and fruit, saying: 

“Here’s your lunch, Miss Belle.”

“Put it down, please; I’m not ready for it yet.”

And Belle shook her head as she glanced at Lizzie, who was staring hard at the fire with such a troubled face that Belle could not bear to see it.

Jumping out of her nest of cushions, she heaped a plate with good things, and going to Lizzie, offered it, saying, with a gentle courtesy that made the act doubly sweet: 

“Please have some; you must be tired of waiting.”

But Lizzie could not take it; she could only cover her face and cry; for this kindness rent her heart and made the stolen flower a burden too heavy to be borne.

“Oh, don’t cry so!  Are you sick?  Have I been rude?  Tell me all about it; and if I can’t do anything, mamma can,” said Belle, surprised and troubled.

“No; I’m not sick; I’m bad, and I can’t bear it when you are so good to me,” sobbed Lizzie, quite overcome with penitence; and taking out the crumpled rose, she confessed her fault with many tears.

“Don’t feel so much about such a little thing as that,” began Belle, warmly; then checked herself, and added, more soberly, “It was wrong to take it without leave; but it’s all right now, and I’ll give you as many roses as you want, for I know you are a good girl.”

“Thank you.  I didn’t want it only because it was pretty, but I wanted to copy it.  I can’t get any for myself, and so I can’t do my make-believe ones well.  Madame won’t even lend me the old ones in the store, and Estelle has none to spare for me, because I can’t pay her for teaching me.  She gives me bits of muslin and wire and things, and shows me now and then.  But I know if I had a real flower I could copy it; so she’d see I did know something, for I try real hard.  I’m so tired of slopping round the streets, I’d do anything to earn my living some other way.”

Lizzie had poured out her trouble rapidly; and the little story was quite affecting when one saw the tears on her cheeks, the poor clothes, and the thin hands that held the stolen rose.  Belle was much touched, and, in her impetuous way, set about mending matters as fast as possible.