Nobody, it is safe to say, was more surprised at the turn of affairs than was Hester. She thought about it while she hurriedly combed the tangle of hair before her bit of broken glass, and made ready for going home. She was worried about the baby, but she divided her thoughts with this strange offering from Celia. She knew all about the Easter flowers, and the plans for the afternoon, and the high tea together at Marion’s lovely home. Celia’s talk had been full of it for the past two days. “I’d just like to know what made her do it, anyhow,” was Hester’s concluding question, offered aloud to the tin basin, in which she energetically washed her hands when the hair was done. Easter morning was beautiful with sunshine and the song of birds, when Celia, looking from her window, saw Hester tripping around to the back door. She had been allowed to stay at home all night. “O, Hester!” called Celia, “how is the baby?” Hester looked up with a glad smile. “He is better,” she said, “ever so much better. Mother would have sent me word, only she expected me. He laughed and crowed as soon as he saw me, and you can’t think what a lovely time I had with him. Say, Celia, I want to know what made you do it?” Celia’s sensitive face flushed, and she hesitated. How was she to tell Hester why she did it? From the next room came the notes of Lorene’s voice, as clear as any bird’s, rising high and pure: “Low in the grave he lay, Jesus my Saviour.” “It was that,” she said simply. “What?” asked Hester; “I don’t know what you mean.” “That that Lorene is singing. He ‘lay in the grave,’ you know, for us. That is why it is Easter. I wanted to do something for somebody, and I hadn’t any big thing.” “It was a big thing to me,” Hester said, and went inside the back door. Celia’s face was just a trifle shadowed. Despite every effort to put it away, the thought would come: “After all, I needn’t have given it up. The baby is better, and her mother would have sent her word, and another Saturday would have done just as well; and I missed all the beauty and the fun. I know how to arrange flowers.” The shadow staid just a little during the Sunday-school hour. The girls were eager over the delights of the day before—eager to know how she could possibly have staid away. The lovely cross made largely of her own flowers, and bearing on their green background in pure white blossoms the words, “He is risen,” was the most beautiful floral decoration in the church. “Aunt Laura made it,” Marion said. “You did not deserve to have it arranged so beautifully; we thought you ought to have had interest enough to have come and seen it, anyhow. Why didn’t you?”