“You are a hero-worshipper, my dear; and if people don’t come up to the mark you are so disappointed that you fail to see the fine reality which remains when the pretty romance ends. Saints walk about the world today as much as ever, but instead of haircloth and halos they now wear”— “Broadcloth and wide-brimmed hats,” added Christie, looking up as if she had already found a better St. Thomas than any the church ever canonized. He thanked her with a smile, and went on with a glance toward the meadow. “And knights go crusading as gallantly as ever against the giants and the dragons, though you don’t discover it, because, instead of banner, lance, and shield they carry”— “Bushel-baskets, spades, and sweet-flag for their mothers,” put in Christie again, as David came up the path with the loam he had been digging. Both began to laugh, and he joined in the merriment without knowing why, as he put down his load, took off his hat, and shook hands with his honored guest. “What’s the joke?” he asked, refreshing himself with the handful of berries Christie offered him. “Don’t tell,” she whispered, looking dismayed at the idea of letting him know what she had said of him. But Mr. Power answered tranquilly: “We were talking about coins, and Christie was expressing her opinion of one I showed her. The face and date she understands; but the motto puzzles her, and she has not seen the reverse side yet, so does not know its value. She will some day; and then she will agree with me, I think, that it is sterling gold.” The emphasis on the last words enlightened David: his sunburnt cheek reddened, but he only shook his head, saying: “She will find a brass farthing I’m afraid, sir,” and began to crumble a handful of loam about the roots of a carnation that seemed to have sprung up by chance at the foot of the apple-tree. “How did that get there?” asked Christie, with sudden interest in the flower. “It dropped when I was setting out the others, took root, and looked so pretty and comfortable that I left it. These waifs sometimes do better than the most carefully tended ones: I only dig round them a bit and leave them to sun and air.” Mr. Power looked at Christie with so much meaning in his face that it was her turn to color now. But with feminine perversity she would not own herself mistaken, and answered with eyes as full of meaning as his own: “I like the single ones best: double-carnations are so untidy, all bursting out of the calyx as if the petals had quarrelled and could not live together.” “The single ones are seldom perfect, and look poor and incomplete with little scent or beauty,” said unconscious David propping up the thin-leaved flower, that looked like a pale solitary maiden, beside the great crimson and white carnations near by, filling the air with spicy odor.