Aunt Jane's eye fell on a long pasteboard box resting on a chair across the room. She looked at it doubtingly. She was too tired to get up. But the sight of the long box irritated her subtly. She had thought flowers were over--for the day. Sometimes Aunt Jane wished that she might never see another flower-box! She wished so now.... Just as she wanted to rest! Well, she would get up presently and take it to the ice-box. Let it stay there till morning. It was no time of night to be sending flowers.... Everybody in bed and asleep! She looked at it severely and got up from her chair and took it up. Her eye fell on the address-- She looked at it disbelievingly--and put it back on the chair--and looked at it.... She fidgeted about the room and came back to the chair. Aunt Jane had never received a box of flowers in her life. She had handled hundreds of them--they had passed through her hands into the eager waiting hands held out for them. She had watched the faces light up, and she had looked on and smiled tolerantly. Folks' faces were _her_ flowers, she had said.... She had never wanted to keep the flowers herself. Flowers were things to be passed on to some one else. No one had ever sent them to her. They knew better! She looked down at the innocent box as if it contained something baleful--something that would disturb the quiet routine of life for her. She did not want to be disturbed--She did not want flowers! And she reached out her hand to the box.... It was very long and big. She wondered how she could have overlooked it when she came in.... If she had not been so tired she would have seen it--perhaps. Who could have sent it, she wondered; and a little, mild curiosity came under the white cap as her fingers undid the tape, and rolled it methodically, and lifted the lid of the box and raised the bit of waxed paper underneath-- Aunt Jane gave a pleased sigh. Herman Medfield's best roses--three dozen of them--shed their fragrance about her; and the little card lying on top of them held their message. She took it up gingerly and read it and put it down sharply--as if it had burned her--and looked at it. Then she gathered up the roses in her hands and held them against her face--until her very cap was lost to sight.... It was a subdued face that emerged from the roses at last. Something of their hardy color seemed to have been caught in its disturbed quiet. She laid them on the table and brought a great vase of water and shook them loose in it--standing off to look at them and touching them here and there.... The subdued look glanced softly at the roses as she lifted the vase and set it on her desk--and stood back again to admire them. They made a gorgeous show--lighting up the wall behind them. The room was filled with rose fragrance. She moved slowly backward, gazing at them--a troubled, happy look in her face.... Then her eye fell on the little card lying on the table.