"These are the Ranunculaceæ family. This is the Aquilegia Cærulea. This is the Delphinium Occidentale. This belongs to the Polemoniaceæ family, and is the Phlox Cæspitosa. These are Compositæ. They are a difficult group to name." Miss Hartwell was indulging in mixed emotions. Mingled with a satisfaction in reviewing her erudition was a quiet revenge heightened by the unconsciousness of her object. "You don't love flowers." There was no indecision in the statement. "Why, yes, I certainly do." "No; you don't, or you wouldn't tear them to pieces." "Don't you ever pick flowers?" "Yes; but I love them. I take them to my room, and they talk to me. They do, too!" Élise flashed an answer to a questioning look of Miss Hartwell, and then went on, "I don't tear them to pieces and throw them away. Not even to find out those hideous names you called them. They don't belong to them. You don't love them, and you needn't pretend you do." Élise's cheeks were flushed. Miss Hartwell was bewildered in mind. She acknowledged it to herself. Élise was teaching her a lesson that she had never heard of before, much less learned. Then came elusive suggestions, vaguely defined, of the two-fold aspect of nature. She looked regretfully at the evidences of her curiosity. She had not yet gone far enough along the new path to take accurate notes of her emotions; but she had an undefined sense of her inferiority, a sense of wrong-doing. "I am very sorry I hurt you. I did not mean to." Élise gave a quick look of interrogation. The look showed sincerity. Her voice softened. "You didn't hurt me; you made me mad. I can help myself. They can't." Miss Hartwell had left her sketch-book unclosed. An errant breath of wind was fluttering the pages. "What is that?" Élise asked. "Another kind of book to make you tear up flowers?" Her voice was hard again. Miss Hartwell took up the open book. "Perhaps you would like to see these. They may atone for my other wrong-doing." Élise seated herself and received the sketches one by one as they were handed to her. Miss Hartwell had intended to make comments as necessity or opportunity seemed to demand; but Élise forestalled her. "This is beautiful; only----" She paused. Miss Hartwell looked up. "Only what?" Élise shook her head impatiently. "You've put those horrid names on each one of them. They make me think of the ones you tore to pieces." Miss Hartwell stretched out her hand. "Let me take them for a moment, please." Élise half drew them away, looking sharply at Miss Hartwell. Then her face softened, and she placed the sketches in her hand. One by one the offending names were removed. "I think that is better." Élise watched curiously, and her expression did not change with the reception of the sketches. "Don't you ever get mad?" she asked. "Sometimes." "That would have made me awfully mad." "But I think you were quite right. The names are not beautiful. The flowers are."