Sometimes it was a box of lilies of the valley, or violets, or heliotrope and myrtle blossoms; at others, a tempting basket of fruit, with a book or periodical of some kind; and Earle knew that his little friend had not forgotten him. Faithfully, never missing a single day, they came for a year, when they suddenly ceased, and he received them no more. No one can realize how the poor prisoner missed these bright evidences of remembrance, nor how eagerly he still looked for them every Saturday for a long time, thinking that perhaps Editha was away or sick, and could not send them for him. “She has forgotten me, after all,” he sighed, sadly, after several months had passed and he had not received a single flower; and it seemed almost as if death had bereaved him—of some dear one as he returned to his lonely cell at night, after his daily task was ended, and there was no sweet perfume to greet him, no bright blossoms to cheer him. All that remained to comfort him was a little box filled with dried and faded flowers that he had not had the heart to throw away, and the memory of the brightness that had been. And what was the reason of all this? Had Editha forgotten? Had she, amid the busy cares which occupied her time and attention at this time, grown careless and neglectful? No. It happened in this way: At the end of a year she graduated, doing honor to both her instructors and herself. There was a day apart for public exercises, when the graduating class appeared before their many friends to show what they were capable of in the way of essays, poems, and other accomplishments, and to receive their diplomas. Editha’s poem was greeted with enthusiasm, a perfect storm of applause testifying to the appreciation of the public; whole floral offerings were showered at her feet, until there were enough to have stocked a florist in a small way. Selecting the choicest of them all, she inclosed both bouquet and poem, together with a little explanatory note, in a box, and dispatched it to Earle. Unfortunately, Mr. Dalton encountered the servant who was bearing this box to the express office, confiscated it, and enjoined silence upon the bearer regarding its untimely fate. The poem he preserved, but the flowers were ruthlessly cast into the flames. “We’ll put a stop to all this nonsense,” he muttered, as he watched their beauty blacken and shrivel upon the glowing coals; and from that day he took care that the lonely prisoner should receive no more flowers or tokens of remembrance from his little friend, who, though she never once failed to keep her promise, was yet destined, through the enmity of another, to appear unfaithful to her promises. The second year passed, and it was a year fraught with events of pain and sorrow for our beautiful Editha.