"At once the girls, all of whom had immense bunches of roses in their hands, began to throw the flowers broadcast over the floor and against the walls. Wherever they struck the walls, they, to even my surprise, remained, as though in some way permanently attached. When the roses had all been scattered, the room looked just as it does now, only the flowers were really fresh-gathered roses. Then the boys each produced a small case of delicate tools, and in a moment all, boys and girls, were down upon the marble floor and busy at work. How they did it I do not know--it is one of the celestial arts, taught to those of highly artistic tastes--but they embedded each living flower just where and as it had fallen, in the marble, and preserved it as you see before you. They came several times before the work was completed, for the flowers do not wither here, nor fade, but were always fresh and perfect. And such a merry, happy company of young people, I never saw before. They laughed and chatted and sang, as they worked; and I could not help wishing more than once that the friends whom they had left mourning for them might look in upon this happy group, and see how little cause they had for sorrow. At last when all was complete, they called me to see their work, and I was not chary of my praises either for the beauty of the work or for their skill in performing it. Then, saying they would be sure to return when either of you came, they went away together, to do something of the kind elsewhere, I doubt not." Happy tears had been dropping upon my hands, clasped idly in my lap, during much of this narrative, and now I asked half-brokenly, for I was greatly touched: "Who were these lovely people, Frank? Do you know them?" "Of course, I know them now; but they were all strangers to me till they came here that first morning, except Lulu Sprague." "Who are they?" "There were three Marys--Mary Green, Mary Bates, Mary Chalmers; Lulu Sprague and Mae Camden. These were the girls, each lovely and beautiful. The boys, all manly, fine fellows, were Carroll Ashland, Stanley and David Chalmers." "Precious children!" I said. "How little I thought my love for them, in the olden days, would ever bring to me this added happiness here! How little we know of the links binding the two worlds!" "Ah, yes!" said my brother, "that is just it. How little we know! If only we could realize while we are yet mortals, that day by day we are building for eternity, how different our lives in many ways would be! Every gentle word, every generous thought, every unselfish deed, will become a pillar of eternal beauty in the life to come. We cannot be selfish and unloving in one life, and generous and loving in the next; the two lives are too closely blended--one but a continuation of the other. But come now to the library."