enormous bunch of magnificent yellow roses. Mr. Cabot recognized them as coming from a bush in which its owner took the greatest pride, and in a moment their fragrance filled the room. “What beauties!” he exclaimed. “But are you sure they are for me?” “If she decides to give them to you, sir.” “She? Who? Bridget or Maggie?” “Neither. They belong to the lady who is now absent; whose soul is the Flower of Truth, and whose beauty is the Glory of the Morning.” Then he added, with a gesture of humility, “That is, of course, if she will deign to accept them.” “But, my well-meaning young friend, were you gifted with less poetry and more experience you would know that these roses will be faded and decaying memories long before the recipient returns. And you a farmer!” Amos looked at the clock. “You seem to have precious little confidence in my flowers, sir. They are good for three hours, I think.” “Three hours! Yes, but to-day is Wednesday and it is many times three hours before next Monday afternoon.” A look of such complete surprise came into Amos’s face that Mr. Cabot smiled as he asked, “Didn’t you know her visit was to last a fortnight?” The young man made no answer to this, but looked first at his questioner and then at his roses with an air that struck Mr. Cabot at the moment as one of embarrassment. As he recalled it afterward, however, he gave it a different significance. With his eyes still on the flowers Amos, in a lower voice, said, “Don’t you know that she is coming to-day?” “No. Do you?” The idea of a secret correspondence between these two was not a pleasant surprise; and the fact that he had been successfully kept in ignorance of an event of such importance irritated him more than he cared to show. He asked, somewhat dryly: “Have you heard from her?” “No, sir, not a word,” and as their eyes met Mr. Cabot felt it was a truthful answer. “Then why do you think she is coming?” Amos looked at the clock and then at his watch. “Has no one gone to the station for her?” “No one,” replied Mr. Cabot, as he turned away and seated himself at his desk. “Why should they?” Then, in a tone which struck its hearer as being somewhat more melancholy than the situation demanded, the young man replied: “I will explain all this to-morrow, or whenever you wish, Mr. Cabot. It is a long story, but if she does come to-day she will be at the station in about fifty minutes. You know what sort of a vehicle the stage is. May I drive over for her?” “Certainly, if you wish.”