Primrose walked down the street, passing by the little cottage which for so many years had been her home. Her sisters did not expect her to return to dinner, and her heart was too full to allow her to go in just then.

So they were to be parted—this was the advice of those who called themselves their friends. Primrose, Jasmine, and Daisy, her three flowers, as mother had called them, were no longer to grow sweetly in one garden together. They were to be parted—Primrose was to go one way, and the little ones another. Impulsive Jasmine would no longer cry out her griefs on Primrose's neck, or tell her joys and griefs, her hopes and aspirations, to the calm and elder sister. Daisy—their baby, as Primrose called her—might be ill or sad, or lonely, and she, Primrose, would no longer be there to comfort her.

Parted! No, they should not be parted—all their young lives they had lived together, and whether they starved, or whether they feasted, they would live together still. Thank God, no one had any real control over them—their very loneliness would now, therefore, be their safety—they might sketch out their own career, and no one could prevent them.

Primrose said to herself—

"After all, I am glad I know the very worst. People mean to be kind; but, oh! how can they understand what we three girls are to one another?"

She walked quickly in her agitation, and passing the village green, came suddenly upon Poppy Jenkins, who was hurrying home to her mother's cottage.

"Well, Miss Primrose, I'm off to-morrow," said Poppy, dropping one of her quick curtseys, and a more vivid red than usual coming into her bright cheeks.

"Yes, Poppy," answered Primrose; "I hope you will be very happy in London"—then a sudden thought occurring to her, she ran after the young girl and laid her hand on her shoulder.

"Poppy, give me your London address—I may want it."

"Oh law! Miss Primrose, do you think you'd be saving out of the thirty pounds regular income and coming up to London on a visit?"

"We may come to London, Poppy—I can't say," answered Primrose in a sad voice—"anyhow, I should like to have your address—may I have it?"

"Surely, miss—aunt lives in a part they call central—she says the rents are very high, but it's all done for the convenience of the beautiful ladies who boards with her. Aunt's address is Penelope Mansion—Wright Street, off the Edgware Road. It's a beautiful sounding address, isn't it, Miss Primrose?"

Primrose smiled again—a smile, however, which made poor little Poppy feel rather down-h............