"Yes," said he smiling,--"about every day. Why?"
"I was thinking how pleasant it was at your house, in England."
"Has Carleton the honour of rivalling Queechy in your liking?"
"I haven't lived there so long, you know," said Fleda. "I dare say it would if I had. I think it is quite as pretty a place."
Mr. Carleton smiled with a very pleased expression. Truth and politeness had joined hands in her answer with a child's grace.
He brought Fleda to her own door and there was leaving her.
"Stop!--O Mr. Carleton," cried Fleda, "come in just for one minute--I want to shew you something."
He made no resistance to that. She led him to the saloon, where it happened that nobody was, and repeating "One minute!"--rushed out of the room. In less than that time she came running back with a beautiful half-blown bud of a monthly rose in her hand, and in her face such a bloom of pleasure and eagerness as more than rivalled it. The rose was fairly eclipsed. She put the bud quietly but with a most satisfied air of affection into Mr. Carleton's hand. It had come from a little tree which he had given her on one of their first visits to the Quai aux Fleurs. She had had the choice of what she liked best, and had characteristically taken a flourishing little rose-bush that as yet shewed nothing but leaves and green buds; partly because she would have the pleasure of seeing its beauties come forward, and partly because she thought having no flowers it would not cost much. The former reason however was all that she had given to Mr. Carleton's remonstrances.
"What is all this, Elfie?" said he. "Have you been robbing your rose tree?"
"No," said Elfie;--"there are plenty more buds! Isn't it lovely? This is the first one. They've been a great while coming out."
His eye went from the rose to her; he thought the one was a mere emblem of the other. Fleda was usually very quiet in her demonstrations; it was as if a little green bud had suddenly burst into a flush of loveliness; and he saw, it was as plain as possible, that good-will to him had been the moving power. He was so much struck and moved that his thanks, though as usual perfect in their kind, were far shorter and graver than he would have given if he had felt less. He turned away from the house, his mind full of the bright unsullied purity and single-hearted good-will that had looked out of that beaming little face; he seemed to see them again in the flower held in his hand, and he saw nothing else as he went.