Meditating on this, Mahala remembered that it was the first criticism of Junior she ever had heard Edith make. She wondered that Edith had remained and gone on dancing when she felt reasonably certain that she was not very greatly interested in what was taking place after Junior disappeared. When, at last, the harp was carried away, the weary musicians left the orchestra pit, the lights were turned out, and the Spellman carriage stopped at the gate, Mahala ran into the house, straight into the waiting arms of Jemima, where a little wisp of paper was thrust deep into the front of her dress. She knew that her mother was immediately behind her, so she cried: “My flowers, Jemima, what did you do with my lovely flowers?” Jemima answered: “I carried all of ’em to the cellar. I put what I could in water and I sprinkled the rest and put wet tissue paper over them. Your Ma said she wanted to have a picture made of them to-morrow with you in the midst.” Mrs. Spellman untied her bonnet strings and swung that small article from her head by one of them. “Well, I don’t know,” she said in exasperation, “what made me think anything so silly. It would look more like a funeral than a celebration.” Facing the possibility of having to look at a framed copy of such a picture with the Moreland basket predominant in beauty above her own, and with the mysterious roses and lilies in evidence, Elizabeth had speedily decided that such a picture would be suggestive of a funeral to her. Across Mahala’s head she said to Jemima: “Was there any loose card or anything you found to tell where those white roses and lilies came from?” Jemima very truthfully answered: “No, ma’am, there wasn’t.” Her own curiosity had been sufficient to prompt her to read the little twisted wisp of note paper she had found tucked under the confining bow of gold that held the flowers, completely screened by the sheltering maidenhair. On that scrap there had been written: “With undying devotion,” and there wasn’t even an initial, back or front. So Jemima had returned it to its original twist and thrust it where she very rightly considered that it belonged, and at that minute it was pressing into the flesh of Mahala’s breast, a vivid reminder that it was there. She was thankful for the crunch of the wheels on the gravel of the driveway which indicated that her father would tie up the horse at the barn before he came to slip off his evening clothes preparatory to putting the animal away. Mahala went straight to her mother and slipping her arms around her, kissed her tenderly. “Thank you very much, Mother dear,” she said, “for every lovely thing you have done to make this night so wonderful for me. I’ll slip in and kiss Papa good-night before I go to bed.” She was half way up the stairs before she heard her mother calling: “Wait, Mahala, wait!”