We consulted one another’s look, and shifted. We knew how thirsty that would be. Already we were thirsty, in thinking about it. “If I were in your places,” Grandmother said, “I’m not sure those reasons would keep me. I rather think they wouldn’t,--always.” We stared at her. It was true that they didn’t always keep us. Were not two of us “in our rooms” even now? Grandmother leaned forward--I know how the shadows of the apple leaves fell on her black lace cap and how the pink sweet-peas were reflected in her delicate face. “Suppose,” she said, “that instead of any of those reasons, somebody gave you this reason: That the earth is a great flower--a flower that has never _really_ blossomed yet. And that when it blossoms, life is going to be more beautiful than we have ever dreamed, or than fairy stories have ever pretended. And suppose our doing one way, and not another, makes the flower come a little nearer to blossoming. But our doing the other way puts back the time when it can blossom. _Then_ which would you want to do?” Oh, make it grow, make it grow, we all cried--and I felt a secret relief: Grandmother was playing a game with us, after all. “And suppose that everything made a difference to it,” she went on, “every little thing--from telling a lie, on down to going to get a drink for somebody and drinking first yourself out in the kitchen. Suppose that everything made a difference, from hurting somebody on purpose, down to making up the bed and pulling the bed-spread tight so that the wrinkles in the blanket won’t show....” At this we looked at one another in some consternation. How did Grandmother know.... “Until after a while,” she said, “you should find out that everything--loving, going to school, playing, working, bathing, sleeping, were all just to make this flower grow. Wouldn’t it be fun to help?” Yes. Oh, yes, we were all agreed about that. It would be great fun to help. “Well, then suppose,” said Grandmother, “that as you helped, you found out something else: That in each of you, say, where your heart is, or where your breath is, there was a flower trying to blossom too! And that only as you helped the earth flower to blossom could your flower blossom. And that your doing one way would make your flower droop its head and grow dark and shrivel up. But your doing the other way would make it grow, and turn beautiful colours--so that bye and bye every one of your bodies would be just a sheath for this flower. Which way _then_ would you rather do?” Oh, make it grow, make it grow, we said again. And Mary Elizabeth added longingly:-- “Wouldn’t it be fun if it was true?” “It is true,” said Grandmother Beers. She sat there, softly smiling over her pink sweet-peas. We looked at her silently. Then I remembered that her face had always seemed to me to be somehow _light within_. Maybe it was her flower showing through! “Grandmother!” I cried, “is it true--is it true?”