“Well, are we going to send the flowers?” asked Virginia. She was aching for Miss Wallace, but Lucile’s romantic ravings were a little tiring. “If we do, let’s not say a word to any one. Miss Wallace, being in The Hermitage, belongs to us more anyway; and I think we ought to love her enough to guard her secret. I know she wouldn’t wish it known. Of course, as things have happened, we can’t help knowing, but we can help talking about it to others. You haven’t told any one else, have you, Lucile?” “Of course not. Don’t you suppose I know better than all of you that life would be simply impossible to her if she thought the world knew. Remember, _I’ve_ seen them together!” “What kind of flowers do you think we’d better send?” “Pink carnations.” “Oh, no, carnations are too common!” “Violets then.” “Oh, spare her that! He gave her violets that afternoon at Versailles!” “Roses, why not?” “Anything but red roses. They mean undying love, and hers is dead.” “Why not send her daffodils?” proposed Virginia. “They’re so cheery and hopeful, and look like spring.” Every one seemed agreed that, under the circumstances, Virginia’s choice was the most appropriate. It was thereupon decided that daffodils be sent to Miss Wallace; but that, to save her possible embarrassment, the names of the donors be kept secret. Dorothy and Vivian were delegated to go to Hillcrest and make the purchase, while the others tried to enliven their sympathetic hearts by tennis. Meanwhile, during this session of sympathy in her behalf, Miss Wallace sat in her school-room, correcting an avalanche of themes, which seemed to have no end. “Dear me!” she sighed to herself, “no girl in this whole school will be so glad of vacation as I. I’ve never taught through such a year.” It certainly had been a hard and trying year. In the fall Miss Green’s tactlessness had required an extra amount of discretion on the part of Miss Wallace; in the winter the German Measles had broken into the regularity necessary for good work; and all through the year she had been required to watch, which occupation she found harder than any other—watch a girl, to whom she had never been able to come close, and whom she had failed to influence toward better things. She could not really blame herself for her failure in helping Imogene, but she felt sorry, because, knowing Imogene, she feared that life would never hold what it might for her. Altogether, it had been a hard year; and she would not have been human had she not at times looked tired, thoughtful, and even sad. “You need a rest, my dear,” said the old Hillcrest doctor, meeting her one day in the village. “You’re quite tired out, working for those nice girls up there.” But that pile of themes did not look like immediate rest; and, sharpening her red pencil, she went to work again.