He was silent. She walked to the grave, and he followed, and they stood there without speaking. It did not seem to occur to her to ask why he had not mentioned her brother at their former interview. She was evidently of an unsuspecting nature, or else all other impressions were forgotten and absorbed in the one thought of her bereavement. After a glance at her Putnam ventured to lay his roses reverently upon the mound. She held in her hand a few wild-flowers just gathered. These she kissed, and dropped them also on the grave. He understood the meaning of her gesture and was deeply moved. "Poor little, dull-colored things!" she said, looking down at them. "They are a thousand times more beautiful than mine," he exclaimed passionately. "I am ashamed of those heartless affairs: anybody can buy them." "Oh no: my brother was very fond of roses. Perhaps you remember his taste for them?" she inquired innocently. "I--I don't think he ever alluded to them. The atmosphere of the medical college was not very aesthetic, you know." "At first I used to bring green-house flowers," she continued, without much heeding his answer, "but lately I haven't been able to afford them except on Sundays. Sundays I bring white ones from the green-house." She had seated herself in her wicker chair, and Putnam, after a moment's hesitation, sat down on the low railing near her. He observed among the wild plants that she had gathered the mottled leaves and waxy blossoms of the pipsissewa and its cousin the shinleaf. "You have been a long way to get some of those," he said: "that pipsissewa grows in hemlock woods, and the nearest are several miles from here." "I don't know their names. I found them in a wood where I used to walk sometimes with my brother. _He_ knew all their names. I went there very early this morning, when the dew was on them." "'Flowers that have on them the cold dews of the night are strewings fittest for graves,'" said Putnam in an undertone. Her face had assumed its usual absent expression, and she seemed busy with some memory and unconscious of his presence. He recalled the latter to her by rising and saying, "I will bid you good-morning now, but I hope you will let me come and sit here sometimes if it doesn't disturb you. I have been very sick myself lately: I was near dying of the typhoid fever. I think it does me good to come here." "Did you have the typhoid? My brother died of the typhoid." "May I come sometimes?" "You may come if you wish to visit Henry. But please don't bring any more of those expensive flowers. I suppose it is selfish in me, but I can't bear to have any of his friends do more for him than I can." "I won't bring any more, of course, if it troubles you, and I thank you very much for letting me come. Good-morning, Miss Pinckney." He bowed and walked away.