"What do you mean by 'it,' you naughty child?" asked Linda, her eyes laughing toward the fishhook braids and the freckles. "Aunt Belinda is a very kind woman." "Oh, yes, if you was sick she'd call the doctor, but even if you was sick you'd have to hang each rag on its own separate hook and let her smell o' the fish-pans after you'd scrubbed 'em." "It's nice to be particular," returned Linda, laughing again. "Huh!" vouchsafed Blanche Aurora; but her eyes, roving around the magic room, had seen something unusual. "Good," she thought. "She's goin' out o' mournin'. I'll bet she looks pretty in them." Her round gaze cleaving to the bed saw three gowns lying there; one of blue, one of pink, and a tailored skirt and coat of a small black-and-white check. "Do you like those dresses?" asked Linda, following her regard. "Yes, they're real sightly." "Come here, Blanche Aurora." The child advanced slowly until she stood beside the black-clothed figure. Linda indicated her father's photograph in its silver frame on a neighboring stand. Before it stood a single wild rose in a small glass: a wild rose of the sea: deep in color and twice the size of its inland sisters. Linda took one of the child's hard tanned hands in her satin-smooth one, and Blanche Aurora started and held her own imprisoned hand stiff and straight. "Every morning when I come upstairs I find a fresh rose like that in front of my father's picture. At first I couldn't speak of it." Silence. "There are some things too precious to speak of. At last one day I thanked Mrs. Porter for the lovely thought. She said it was a lovely thought, but not hers. Then I wondered if Aunt Belinda could possibly--but one day I met you as you were coming downstairs." Silence. "Blanche Aurora"--Linda's voice stopped again. Had Blanche Aurora been accused of highway robbery she could not look more guilty. Not one freckle was discernible in the sea of red; but her unwinking stare was fixed on the window. Linda placed her other hand over the one she held. "I thank you," she added. "You gave me the candy," blurted out Blanche Aurora. "I couldn't think of anything else to do. My Pa's dead, too. He drinked, though," she added in a tone which seemed to suggest no flowers. Linda squeezed the hard little hand and released it, to its owner's relief. "Your mother has so many children, and so little time to sew. Have you a suit at home, Blanche Aurora?" "What do you mean--a suit?" "A coat and skirt alike." "Not alike. I've got a brown skirt that was Ma's and a jacket I wear to church when it's cold. 'Tain't cold now, though. I wear a white waist on Sunday." No suspicion of Linda's intentions enlightened her. The girl arose and walked over to the bed and the blue eyes followed her. "I sent to Chicago for these dresses of mine." "I seen the big box come yesterday," returned the other, gravitating toward the bed, and gloating over the color of the fine fabrics.