WEEKS and months glided on. Spring, with its soft, tender, green, and many blossoms, was spreading life and gladness over the earth, and Leila thought Woodlands a second Eden. The conservatory bloomed with plants of the richest fragrance, and the balcony was gay with flowers of the brightest hue; various beautiful creepers, with the sweet-scented honeysuckle, forming arches over head; and Leila herself looked as fresh and blooming as the flowers, and as joyful as the skylark, as it soared with its glad song into the blue vault of Heaven. She was never weary of admiring the beautiful scenery by which she was surrounded, for early habit had made the beauties of nature to her as a continual feast. Several of her birds were now in full song, and she spent many of her spare minutes in the conservatory. The precious seeds had come up all but one, and she had now three thriving plants of Clara’s flower. Charles had not returned at Easter to mark their progress—he had gone into a distant country to visit an uncle, a brother of Mr. Herbert’s, but by Midsummer he would surely visit home, and she hoped they would be in full flower by that time, which would be for him a still greater pleasure. Leila had, besides all this, other interests to occupy her. She frequently visited the school with her Aunt Stanley and her cousins, and assisted the younger girls in the preparation of their tasks, and she paid frequent visits to Peggy Dobie’s cottage, and to the village, where she made herself acquainted with all the wishes and wants of its various inmates. The Saturdays were generally spent by Selina and Matilda at Woodlands, when, during part of the morning, they assisted Leila in giving instruction to many of the village children in church music, for though Selina’s voice was not yet strong, her knowledge in music made her a most useful assistant. They also now took daily walks with Mrs. Roberts in the fields, and generally returned loaded with wild flowers. Leila had become most successful in drying flowers so as to preserve their bright colours. The field flowers, assisted by her papa, she arranged in books in botanical order; but with the flowers from the conservatory and the garden she often ornamented screens, producing a wonderfully fine effect, superior to any painting, fixing them on with gum, and grouping them together in a most beautiful manner. Matilda often tried to imitate Leila in this, but she did not succeed, her flowers always lost their bright tints, they grew white, or they grew black, but they never grew beautiful; the stalks never would bend gracefully, they would always stick straight up; the gum would always go on in patches, never smoothly, and she complained that though she put on a great deal of gum, some of the leaves would not stick at all, so she generally ended by getting into a rage, and dashing her hair pencil all over the paper.

“Do tell me, Leila, how you manage so well,” she said one morning, as she stood admiring a couple of fine screens which Leila had just finished for Mrs. Herbert. “Those different coloured geraniums seem to me to look brighter even than when they were in the conservatory; and how gracefully the stalks are bent, and the flowers hanging down so nicely, just as if they were still growing; and those leaves and ferns are of such a beautiful green, and look so well mixed with the bright colour of the flowers. My green leaves always turn a dull yellow, or brown, or something abominable; and as to the blue convolvulus, that provokes me more than any thing. Look at yours, they are as bright as when they grew in the garden, and when I try to dry them, the colour goes away altogether, and they get to be a dirty white. I cannot get any thing to do well but yellow buttercups, and that is such a common flower. All this provokes me so, I have no patience for it. No one will ever give me a sovereign for the poor,[B] for a couple of screens, as they did to you, and I wish so much that they would.”

“But you know,” Leila answered, “that was only because it was a sale of ladies’ work for the poor. My screens were not worth that.”

“I don’t know; they were most beautiful, and I heard every one saying so, for I stood near the counter where they were that I might hear them praised; and when that gentleman with the nice face took them up and the lady told them they were done by a little girl, he said that little girl deserved to be encouraged, and he paid down the sovereign in a minute. Oh! I was so glad; but though I cannot earn a sovereign, I might earn something if you would only tell me what I must do to dry them as you do.”

“Yes, I will tell you every thing I can; but I think the great matter is being very patient.”

“But, Cousin Leila, I am sure you are not very patient.”

“Yes, I know that; papa often says I am too impetuous.”

“Well,” Matilda observed, “and does not that just mean that you have no patience?”

Leila coloured. “I suppose it does,” she said; “but in some things I have patience, I am always very patient about flowers; to be sure, that is not wonderful, for in the island they were like friends to me. I used to visit them two or three times in the day to see how they were getting on, and to talk to them, as if they were alive, and I often knew the hour of the day by their opening and shutting.”

“And do any of the flowers here open and shut at certain hours?” Matilda inquired.

“Yes, some of them do; but I don’t know the flowers here so well; one kind of evening primrose opens its flowers every day a quarter of an hour before sunset; and the chickweed, which you see me so often gathering for my birds, seems to me to open both leaves and flowers every morning at nine o’clock, and closes its flowers again for some time at twelve, and will not open them at all if it rains; then in the evening it always seems to be making itself comfortable for the night, for the leaves all down the stalk shut up to cover the young shoots, just as if it were putting a great many night-caps on them to keep them warm.”

“How very curious,” Matilda said; “but, Leila, we are forgetting that you were to tell me more about drying flowers. I know I need never try to gain a sovereign like you; but if I could even gain half-a-crown or even a shilling sometimes, it would be such a comfort, for I am always getting into such scrapes about my money for the poor; somehow it always melts away; both you and Selina contrive to save a little every week.”

“But I have more pocket-money than you have.”

“Yes, you have; but still I know I ought to save something, and often I cannot; it is all the fault of those trumpery shops. When I go to Richmond there are so many pretty things which I wish for; and then I am so often hungry and must have some bunns, you know,—how do you manage so well?”

“I don’t manage very well—I often buy bunns also; but when I wish for pretty things which cost much, I remember that Nurse says ‘I should turn away mine eyes from beholding vanity,’ and then I try not to look at them, but very often I do. You know the other day when I saw that beautiful basket I did not turn away. I looked at it so long, and then I took it in my hand and turned it round and round, and thought it so beautiful, that I could not resist buying it. And now I don’t like it at all; for it cost so much that I shall not be able to save any of my pocket-money this week.”

“Well, that was wrong, to be sure, and just what I should have done myself; but don’t be melancholy about it now, for you have always money beforehand, so it does not much signify for one week; so do tell me how I am to earn half-a-crown, and how I am to dry flowers in a most beautiful manner; you say patience is the chief thing. Will patience make them keep their colour? now do tell me that.”

“Yes,” Leila answered, “it will; and I will tell you how. Very often when it clears up after rain, and the flowers look very bright, you wish to gather them for drying—I always tell you that it is a bad time, but still you often try to do it—and they get quite dim and discoloured, and you are obliged to throw them away. Now when I wish to dry them, I wait till it has been quite fair for several days, and when it is bright and sunny, and there is no damp in the air, I gather the flowers. I always choose those that are very bright and fully blown, but before they have begun to fade in the slightest degree. If they have a decayed speck no bigger than the head of a pin, do not gather them, for they will not be bright when dried.”

“And what more do you do?”

“I put them between folds of close smooth writing-paper, never into blotting-paper.”

“But Lydia told me it should be blotting-paper.”

“No, I have tried that; but the blotting-paper seems to suck the colour out of them. Well, I place those papers between the leaves of a book, and tie it tight up with a ribbon, and put it under a weight; if it is a very tender flower, such as the blue convolvulus, for instance, then you must not put a very heavy weight, the weight must be in proportion to the tenderness of the flower. Next day I change the papers that there may be no damp about them, for nothing spoils their colour so much as damp. Now all this, you see, takes patience; for sometimes I have to change the papers more than once.”

“Yes,” Matilda observed, “and such patience, that I am sure I shall never be able to do it. And this is all then?”

“No; in putting the flowers into dry bits of paper you must do it very gently, that they may lie quite smooth; for much of their beauty depends on their looking smooth, and not shrivelled up in any way; and I forgot to tell you that sometimes before putting them in at all, I bend the stalks a little to make them lie gracefully. The stalks of the geraniums are so stiff and straight, that I am obliged to take off the flower-heads, and put them in papers by themselves, and then I flatten the stalks and bend them a little before I begin to dry them. The ferns, which you like so much, grow so gracefully, that I seldom have to bend them at all, but just to lay them on paper as they grow. The young ferns of a bright tender green do best: indeed, all green leaves should be dried when they first come out, before they have got to be a deep colour, for green is a very difficult colour to dry well; most yellow flowers do very well, the yellow crocus keeps very bright; indeed, some scarlet and rose-coloured geraniums dry beautifully, and other scarlets won’t dry at all,—you must just get acquainted with those that do well, and with those that don’t.”

Matilda groaned. “My hopes are quite dying away; half-a-crown!—I don’t think I shall be able to earn sixpence even;—but it is sunny and bright now, we might go into the garden, and you could gather some of the flowers which do best, and show me how you lay them on the paper—I think I have seen you working away with a long pin; but if I were to take a pin in my hand, I should be sure to run it through the flowers if they would not lie the right way, for I should be so provoked.

“Well, that is why I say that the chief thing is patience; you would quite spoil the flower if you even scratched it with the pin. I take the pin to help me to guide the leaves to lie right; for sometimes when I lay down the branch on the paper, all the leaves get crowded together, and I have to separate them, and sometimes to pluck off one or two.”

“It is most horribly difficult, I can see that; however, let us go into the garden; perhaps, if I see you do it, I might still try.”

“But, Matilda, it won’t do to gather flowers to dry to-day; you forget that it rained in the night, and that this morning even there was a slight shower.”

Matilda shrugged her shoulders. “What a business! better give it up altogether, and especially if I am to bear in mind every time it rains. When the rain is over, I am too glad to forget it,—who ever thinks of rain when the sun is shining? not I—I always feel sure it is never to rain again; and so all my little plans for goodness must be given up, and I must just go on buying bunns till I am older, and then perhaps I shall not be so hungry, and shall not care for them so much.”

Leila smiled but shook her head. “Now don’t talk in that way, Matilda, for you know very well it is not right, and you do not mean to go on spending all your money on bunns; you could not be happy if you did; you only say so to make me laugh; but come, let us go into the garden, and I can show you what flowers do best for drying, and then when it is fine we can gather them, and I will help you to put them in paper. I am sure you also could make money by it.”

“Oh, you are a darling!” Matilda exclaimed; “and again my hopes are rising, rising—sixpence—a shilling—half-a-crown. Oh! there will be no counting the money I shall make. I shall have quite too much for the poor, and be able to treat you all with bunns into the bargain; now that is what I call generous.”

They found Mrs. Roberts and Alfred in the garden, Alfred flying at full speed as if in pursuit of something. “Don’t stop me, Matilda, don’t. Now it is going to settle on that rosebush—no, it is not—yes, it is hovering—now don’t move, don’t make a noise; now I have him;”—and he held up a large dragon-fly between his fingers.

Matilda screamed. “Oh! let him go, Alfred—do let him go—he will sting you; only see how he is putting out that long frightful sting. I see his sting quite plain.”

“No, Matilda, you need not be afraid, he cannot hurt me, for he has no sting. Mrs. Roberts told me that was a vulgar error.”

“Did you tell Alfred that?” Matilda inquired, turning to Mrs. Roberts; “but how can that be when I see it? and he is pushing it out every moment in a most frightful manner; only look, Mrs. Roberts.”

“Yes, I see what you mean, Matilda; but that movement in its body is only the effort the poor dragon-fly is making to escape; it is a perfectly harmless insect, for it has no instrument with which it can sting.”

“Then if you are quite sure of that,” Matilda said, eagerly, “I should like to look at him nearer. Stop, Alfred, and let me see. Oh! what a beautiful creature he is, and with four such lovely wings; when the sun shines upon them they seem to change colour like mother-of-pearl. Now that I know he has no sting I think him a perfect beauty, and before I used to run away from a dragon-fly as if it had been a wild beast; and they do look rather fierce though they are beautiful, for they have such a way of darting down so suddenly. Sometimes I have watched them flying across the pond at the bottom of the garden, and they dart down so low, they seem as if they were dropping into the water.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Roberts observed, “that is because they chiefly live upon water insects; with those large eyes they can discern their prey at a great distance, and then dart down upon it; but it is a bold insect and a voracious one also, and I have seen it sometimes attack a butterfly fully as large as itself and tear it to pieces. It lives, however, chiefly on small water insects, and seizes upon them as they skim along the surface of the water; but another reason why one so often sees dragon-flies in the neighbourhood of ponds and ditches is, that the dragon-fly itself passes its young state in the water, and those small ones which you have often seen near ponds are those which have just left their former state and become winged insects.”

“Yes, I know all about that,” Alfred said; “Mrs. Roberts told me about the larva and about the pupa skin, like a little box, that they crawl out of, and then fly off; it was very interesting. Now I will let this one fly away, and show you what she has made for me, I hid it behind that big flower-pot till I required it again; see, it is a little net of coarse muslin, sewed round this circle of wire, and I fixed the pole to it myself; it is for fishing in the pond for larva. Mrs. Roberts, might we go now and try for some, and then you could tell Cousin Leila and Matilda more about it?”

Mrs. Roberts gave a willing assent, and to the pond they all proceeded.

“Now, Alfred,” Matilda said, “do give me the net; I daresay you have had it for a long time to-day, and I should like so much to fish for larva, for I want so much to know what larva is.”

Alfred looked a little disappointed, but yielded up the net, saying only, “Now, Matilda, do take care of it, please, for it will be easily broken.”

“Never fear, little man, you are so easily frightened; do you think I don’t know how to take care of a fishing-net? Now stand aside a little and you shall see.” She plunged it vigorously into the pond, the net filled with mud, she could scarcely draw it out again; little Alfred became very red, and was near getting into a passion, but a look from Mrs. Roberts, as she pronounced his name, restrained him; he took the net from Matilda, and having washed it out carefully, put it into Leila’s hands, saying, “Now it is your turn, Cousin Leila, to try for larva.”

Leila did try, but she was not much more successful than Matilda, the net still came up half filled with mud, for she plunged it down too hastily; besides, the water had been much disturbed.

Matilda clapped her hands. “How glad I am!” she exclaimed.

Mrs. Roberts looked towards her; but a look, however impressive, was seldom sufficient for Matilda.

“Yes,” she continued, “I am glad; for it is a comfort to me that though Cousin Leila is so patient about flowers, she is not in the least patient about larva.”

Leila coloured, but said nothing.

Matilda looked at her for a moment, then throwing her arms round her neck, she said,—“Oh! I am a wretch to vex you, and just at the very moment too when you have been so kind to me about the flowers; but kiss me, Leila, and don’t let us think any more about it; there, Alfred, do you wash out the net again, and dip it in the right way, and let us see the larva and talk about it.”

Alfred obeyed, and having gone to the other side of the pond where the water had not been disturbed, he dipped the net very gently in, and soon brought up a large muddy-looking insect.

Mrs. Roberts looked at it attentively. “You have been in good luck, Alfred,” she said, “for you have got the larva of the great dragon-fly, the very same species you caught in the garden. This species is fond of concealing itself in the mud, and lies in wait there till it pounces on any insect that comes in its way.”

“But it seems to move so slowly,” Matilda observed, “that I should think that if the other insects were the least bit clever, they could easily get out of its way. They must stand still, silly things, to be devoured.”

“No, Matilda, you are deciding too hastily. The poor insects are in much greater danger than you are aware of. This slow-looking gentleman has a most curious apparatus at his command that you are not yet acquainted with. He has very large jaws which are covered with a kind of mask. Look at this horny substance which covers its face.”

“So much the better that it does cover its face,” Matilda said; “for I am sure it must be a frightfully ugly one. But what more does it do?”

“When it pleases it can let down this mask, which has claws at the end, similar, though on so small a scale, to the claws of a lobster. When it sees its prey within reach, it darts out these claws, and in a moment conveys the poor insect to its mouth. Then it has a way of bringing the insects nearer to itself. Do you see those five sharp little points at the tail? it has the power of drawing in and pushing out the water by opening and shutting them; this produces a slight current in the water, which floats the small insects within its reach.”

“It is a cunning, cruel wretch,” Matilda said, “and I don’t understand how such a horrid creature as that can ever become that beautiful harmless dragon-fly; but did you ever see it in its pupa state? does it begin to grow good then?”

“Why, as to that, Matilda, it moves and eats in its pupa state just as it does now. I am afraid you would not think there was much improvement; but it is from instinct, not cruelty, that it makes use of those means to procure food. You forget that we too take the life of many animals to procure our food, and often, I am afraid, in an unjustifiably cruel manner. But you ask me if I have ever seen the dragon-fly in its pupa state. I did once, and it was very curious indeed.”

“Do tell us about it; how I wish I could see it too. I hope it was not so ugly as this larva creature.”

“It certainly was more curious than beautiful; it was attached to the branch of a shrub, and at first it seemed to me as an insect with two bodies, with the head and eyes of a dragon-fly.”

“What a monster,” Matilda exclaimed, “worse even than the larva.”

“No; on looking at it more attentively, I saw it was on the point of escaping from its pupa case, so I sat down and watched it for some time. Its wings were folded up on its back in a wonderfully small space. At first they looked quite short, but as it cleared itself from its pupa skin, the wings gradually expanded; it seemed, however, too weak to fly. It slowly crawled to another branch of the shrub, and there remained, as if resting from its labours.”

“And did you not see it fly?”

“No; I was obliged soon after to leave the garden, and when I returned it was gone, probably enjoying in the air its new state of existence. The pupa case alone remained, and was not the least broken or injured by the dragon-fly having made its escape. It looked quite transparent; on trying to remove it, I found it was attached to the branch by two little claws which projected from that part of the case which covered each leg.”

“Oh, how beautiful, and how wonderful!” Leila exclaimed, her whole countenance beaming with intelligence.

Matilda, while Mrs. Roberts was giving them this account, had looked at Leila once or twice with some anxiety; their eyes now met; Leila’s sunny smile quite reassured Matilda, and she whispered in her ear, “You dear one, you are more beautiful to me than a hundred dragon-flies; and I am so glad that you have not wings, and that you cannot fly away from me.”

“Now, Alfred,” Mrs. Roberts said, “put by your net carefully.”

“May I not fish just once more, and try for the larva of the gnats and caddis worms which you promised to tell me about?”

“No, not to-day; at another time you shall do so.”

Mrs. Roberts took Alfred by the hand and turned towards the house, while Leila and Matilda took their way to the flower beds; Matilda with most sanguine anticipations of the money she was about to make.