“Now we are by ourselves, girls,” said James, “I’ll tell you all about it. There was some one else in the garden.” “Some one else!” exclaimed Ruth. Eva, blushing vividly over face and bosom, began to arrange the folds of her dress with great earnestness, but said nothing. “You know who it was, Eva,” said James, with a sly glance. “I’ve seen you walking with him.” “No, no, James! only as he was coming the same way. Don’t believe it, Ruth. I never did more than that,” cried Eva, eager to defend herself, yet trembling with a sense of shame. “Who said you did? Oh, Eva! Eva! I’ve found out something. It wasn’t old Storms that gave you this, anyhow!” Here James held up a little cluster of sweet-scented violets and sprigs of heliotrope, gathered around a moss rose-bud. “_He_ picked this, Eva, with his own hands. I wish you could have seen what a fuss he made in putting them together. Old Storms offered to help him, but he said, no! he would do that himself. Then he said, ‘Give this to your sister; I know that she is going out to-night, and shall be honored—that’s the word, Eva—honored if she will wear it.’” Eva took the tiny bouquet and held it, irresolute, casting a shy glance at her sister, who looked gravely, almost reproachfully at her. James, who was watching them both, broke forth in his boyish impatience. “There, now, Ruth, don’t be an old maid, and spoil all her fun. She hasn’t done anything, I tell you. Not one quarter as much as all them Fifth Avenue girls are doing every hour of their lives. Now what are you pouting for?” Ruth smiled again. A sudden doubt had haunted her for a moment, but it passed from her innocent mind like dew from a lily, and all was bright again. “Who is he, Eva?” she said, reaching out her hand. “A gentleman, Ruth, if ever one lived. He has been at the store several times, and Mr. Harold introduced him. They went to school together, and—and that is all. Only his name is Lambert—Ivon Lambert.” “His mother is as proud as if she were governor of North America; but he isn’t—not a bit of it,” broke in James. “The way he talks to me is quite friendly. That fellow, Boyce, now, would never condescend to it, knowing that I ’tend that baby sometimes; just as if he and his red hair was anything particular. If Mr. Lambert had not been a thorough gentleman, I wouldn’t have brought his flowers, anyway. You ought to have known that, Ruth.” “As if I did not know it,” answered the sweet invalid, penitent and ashamed of the momentary cloud that had come over her. “Eva, dear, let us begin again.” Ruth gathered up the flowers in her lap, and began to arrange them in glowing clusters, with which she looped back the over-dress. “Now just a dash of this warm crimson for your hair, and nothing can be more lovely,” she exclaimed, pulling Eva down to her knees, and fastening a red rose and some of the mossiest buds among her braids.