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      ‘Padre Cristoforo,’ was the answer.

      ‘Fancy little Amy choosing Joan of Arc,’ said Eveleen, ‘she who is afraid of a tolerable sized grasshopper.’

      ‘I should like to have been Joan’s sister, and heard her tell about her visions,’ said Amy.

      ‘You would have taught her to believe them,’ said Philip.

      ‘Taught her!’ cried Guy. ‘Surely you take the high view of her.’

      ‘I think,’ said Philip, ‘that she is a much injured person, as much by her friends as her enemies; but I don’t pretend to enter either enthusiastically or philosophically into her character.’

      What was it that made Guy’s brow contract, as he began to strip the feather of a pen, till, recollecting himself, he threw it from him with a dash, betraying some irritation, and folded his hands.

      ‘Lavender,’ read Charlotte.

      ‘What should make any one choose that?’ cried Eveleen.

      ‘I know!’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, looking up. ‘I shall never forget the tufts of lavender round the kitchen garden at Stylehurst.’