It was Good Friday when she arrived at her aunt’s quiet country home. The winter was dying away and spring was making itself known and felt, while a few birds were venturing to sing of summer’s return. The buds were swelling, the lawns and meadows were becoming green, and in the woods Grace was sure she could find, should she try, a violet, a bloodroot bloom, or a dainty snowdrop. For these were the first flowers, and sometimes appeared, her mother told her, before the snow was fairly gone. A surprise awaited her, however; for, as she was wandering aimlessly about the garden borders that afternoon, she suddenly came upon a bed of golden buds and blossoms. After gazing at them a few moments to make sure she was not dreaming, she hastened away to Aunt Chatty for an explanation. “Why, dearie, those are Easter flowers,” laughed her aunt. “But I thought Easter lilies were white.” “Not all of them. I have some white ones—in another part of the garden. Those you saw are daffodils and jonquils.” “John—who?” queried Grace, in astonishment. “Jonquils,” repeated Mrs. White, amused not a little at Grace’s ignorance and wonder. “Come! I’ll show you which is which.” Grace ran on ahead, and was minutely inspecting the tender young blossoms when her aunt arrived. “The large double yellow ones are daffodils. Those across yonder are the white ones. Wait!” she called, for the impatient child had already started toward the bed of more familiar lilies. “Here are the jonquils—these with cups. Really the name for these, both the yellow and the white, is Narcissus. Presently I’ll tell you how they came to have that name. There are twenty or thirty kinds, but the most perfect forms grow in Europe and Japan. Cultivation has done a great deal for the Narcissus, both in this and other countries, but these of mine are but the old-fashioned sort that grandmother planted here. Now let’s go see the white ones. Will they be in full bloom for Easter?” “Yes,” replied Grace. “See, here are two now. Mamma has this kind,” and she fondled the snowy blossoms as though they were friends of long standing. “These are, without doubt, the ‘lilies of the field’ that Christ spoke of,” said Aunt Chatty. “Isn’t it nice of them to hurry from the ground in the spring in time to remind us of the resurrection of Him who commended them so highly? And their whiteness tells us of His purity, as though they wish to honor Him as long as they live.” “But tell me, aunty, how they came to have that other name,” urged Grace presently. “Oh, yes. That story was told by the ancients to frighten boys and girls who were selfish and unkind.” To the cosy sitting room they repaired, for the air had not yet become warm enough for so lengthy a stay out of doors. When both were comfortably settled Aunt Chatty began: