“Dear me, I don’t know where you’d find any. I don’t raise them; they’re like Lauretta, pretty but useless. But, pshaw! I don’t see what’s got into me, picking on Lauretta, though she always did rub me the wrong way.” “Maybe I could find something,” persisted Ellen. “You’re welcome to,” returned Miss Rindy from the pantry where she had gone. Ellen opened the kitchen door and looked out. It wasn’t very promising. A few green tomatoes still hung on the vines, a scraggy apple tree bore several apples at the top, and there was a row of cabbages left in a patch at the back. None of these offered anything like a bouquet. Ellen went down the brick walk to investigate farther, and presently discovered that a honeysuckle vine, which had strayed from the neighboring yard and hung over the fence, ventured to display a few late blossoming sprays of which Ellen took immediate possession. While doing this she observed that there was an open lot bordering on the property. It was easy to reach by climbing the low fence. An open lot always presented all sorts of possibilities, and this one, while somewhat disappointing, offered a sparse supply of blooms which Ellen was quick to gather,—two or three crimson clover-heads, a cluster of purple asters, yarrow more plentiful, and two belated buttercups. With the honeysuckle these would do very well, and when at the last several frost-touched leaves of woodbine added more color, Ellen returned well pleased. She ran into the kitchen. “Look, Cousin Rindy, look!” she cried. Miss Rindy turned from her task of grating cheese. “Well, I declare,” she exclaimed. “They’re nothing but useless weeds, but they’re right pretty after all. You can get a tumbler out of the pantry to put them in.” Ellen set her bouquet proudly in the center of the table on which Miss Rindy already had deposited a plate of warmed-over rolls, a dish of stewed apples, some plain gingerbread, and the grated cheese. There was a glass of milk for Ellen, tea for herself. It was a simple meal, but there was enough of it, and Ellen rose from the table satisfied. She helped her cousin with the dishes, and then they sat down together in the parlor. The light from the big kerosene lamp picked out the gleam of the two or three ornately bound books on the marble-topped table, discovered the gilt frames of “A Yard of Roses” and the big chromo where woodeny waves threatened to engulf a tin-like ship. “Now we’ll talk,” announced Miss Rindy, settling herself in a heavy haircloth-covered rocking-chair. “You will have to be provided with some work to do, Ellen. You can’t sit all the evening just holding your hands in that useless way. I don’t suppose you have anything just now, but you can hold this worsted for me and meantime tell me all about yourself. Of course I know in a general way, but I want more information, if you are going to live with me. You can tell me what you choose, and I will read between the lines.”