“I never read Richardson, but he couldn’t be duller than Henry James, with his everlasting stories, full of people who talk a great deal and amount to nothing. I like the older novels best, and enjoy some of Scott’s and Miss Edgeworth’s better than Howells’s, or any of the modern realistic writers, with their elevators, and paint-pots, and every-day people,” said Alice, who wasted little time on light literature.

“I’m glad to hear you say so, for I have an old-fashioned fancy that I’d rather read about people as they were, for that is history, or as they might and should be, for that helps us in our own efforts; not as they are, for that we know, and are all sufficiently commonplace ourselves, to be the better for a nobler and wider view of life and men than any we are apt to get, so busy are we earning daily bread, or running after fortune, honor or some other bubble.  But I mustn’t lecture, or I shall bore you, and forget that I am your hostess, whose duty it is to amuse.”

As Mrs. Warburton paused, Carrie, anxious to change the subject, said, with her eyes on a curious jewel which the old lady wore, “I also like true stories, and you promised to tell us about that lovely pin some day.  This is just the time for it,—­please do.”

“With pleasure, for the little romance is quite apropos to our present chat.  It is a very simple tale, and rather sad, but it had a great influence on my life, and this brooch is very dear to me.”

As Mrs. Warburton sat silent a moment, the girls all looked with interest at the quaint pin which clasped the soft folds of muslin over the black silk dress which was as becoming to the still handsome woman as the cap on her white hair and the winter roses in her cheeks.  The ornament was in the shape of a pansy; its purple leaves were of amethyst, the yellow of topaz, and in the middle lay a diamond drop of dew.  Several letters were delicately cut on its golden stem, and a guard pin showed how much its wearer valued it.

“My sister Lucretia was a good deal older than I, for the three boys came between,” began Mrs. Warburton, still gazing at the fire, as if from its ashes the past rose up bright and warm again.  “She was a very lovely and superior girl, and I looked up to her with wonder as well as adoration.  Others did the same, and at eighteen she was engaged to a charming man, who would have made his mark had he lived.  She was too young to marry then, and Frank Lyman had a fine opening to practise his profession at the South.  So they parted for two years, and it was then that he gave her the brooch, saying to her, as she whispered how lonely she should be without him, ’This PENSEE is a happy, faithful thought of me.  Wear it, dearest girl, and don’t pine while we are separated.  Read and study, write much to me, and remember, “They never are alone that are accompanied with noble thoughts."’”

“Wasn’t that sweet?” cried Eva, pleased with the beginning of the tale.