In the rage of his boyish passion, he cut brutally at the flowers growing at his feet. “If you keep this up, you'll send me to the devil!” he exclaimed. She caught his hand and took the whip from his fingers. “Ah, don't hurt the poor flowers,” she begged, “they aren't to blame.” “Who is to blame, Betty?” She looked up wistfully into his angry face. “You are no better than a child, Dan,” she said, almost sadly, “and you haven't the least idea what you are storming so about. It's time you were a man, but you aren't, you're just--” “Oh, I know, I'm just a pampered poodle dog,” he finished, bitterly. “Well, you ought to be something better, and you must be.” “I'll be anything you please, Betty; I'll be President, if you wish it.” “No, thank you, I don't care in the least for Presidents.” “Then I'll be a beggar, you like beggars.” “You'll be just yourself, if you want to please me, Dan,” she said earnestly. “You will be your best self--neither the flattering Lightfoot, nor the rude Montjoy. You will learn to work, to wait patiently, and to love one woman. Whoever she may be, I shall say, God bless her.” “God bless her, Betty,” he echoed fervently, and added, “Since it's a man you want, I'll be a man, but I almost wish you had said a President. I could have been one for you, Betty.” Then he held out his hand. “I don't suppose you will kiss me good-by?” he pleaded. “No, I shan't kiss you good-by,” she answered. “Never, Betty?” Smiling brightly, she gave him her hand. “When you have loved me two years, perhaps,--or when you marry another woman. Good-by, dear, good-by.” He turned quickly away and went up the little path to the gate. There he paused for an instant, looked back, and waved his hand. “Good-by, my darling!” he called, boldly, and passed under the honeysuckle arbour. As he mounted his horse in the drive he saw her still standing as he had left her, the roses falling about her, and the sunshine full upon her bended head. Until he was hidden by the trees she watched him breathlessly, then, kneeling in the path, she laid her cheek upon the long grass he had trodden underfoot. “O my love, my love,” she whispered to the ground. Miss Lydia called her from the house, and she went to her with some loose roses in her muslin apron. “Did you call me, Aunt Lydia?” she asked, lifting her radiant eyes to the old lady's face. “I haven't gathered very many leaves.” “I wanted you to pot some white violets for me, dear,” answered Miss Lydia, from the back steps. “My winter garden is almost full, but there's a spot where I can put a few violets. Poor Mr. Bill asked for a geranium for his window, so I let him take one.” “Oh, let me pot them for you,” begged Betty, eager to be of service. “Send Petunia for the trowel, and I'll choose you a lovely plant. It's too bad to see all the dear verbenas bitten by the frost.” She tossed a rose into Miss Lydia's hands, and went back gladly into the garden.