“And these?” he said presently, pointing to the delicate violet bells that grew next the crimson ones. The color deepened a shade in Christie’s cheek, but she went on with no other sign of shyness; for with David she always spoke out frankly, because she could not help it. “Those mean love to me, not passion: the deep red ones half hidden under the leaves mean that. My violet flowers are the best and purest love we can know: the sort that makes life beautiful and lasts for ever. The white ones that come next are tinged with that soft color here and there, and they mean holiness. I know there will be love in heaven; so, whether I ever find it here or not, I am sure I shall not miss it wholly.” Then, as if glad to leave the theme that never can be touched without reverent emotion by a true woman, she added, looking up to where a few spotless blossoms shone like silver in the light: “Far away there in the sunshine are my highest aspirations. I cannot reach them: but I can look up, and see their beauty; believe in them, and try to follow where they lead; remember that frost comes latest to those that bloom the highest; and keep my beautiful white flowers as long as I can.” “The mush is ready; come to breakfast, children,” called Mrs. Sterling, as she crossed the hall with a teapot in her hand. Christie’s face fell, then she exclaimed laughing: “That’s always the way; I never take a poetic flight but in comes the mush, and spoils it all.” “Not a bit; and that’s where women are mistaken. Souls and bodies should go on together; and you will find that a hearty breakfast won’t spoil the little hymn the morning-glories sung;” and David set her a good example by eating two bowls of hasty-pudding and milk, with the lovely flower in his button-hole. “Now, what are we to do next?” asked Christie, when the usual morning work was finished. “In about ten minutes thee will see, I think,” answered Mrs. Sterling, glancing at the clock, and smiling at the bright expectant look in the younger woman’s eyes. She did see; for in less than ten minutes the rumble of an omnibus was heard, a sound of many voices, and then the whole Wilkins brood came whooping down the lane. It was good to see Ma Wilkins jog ponderously after in full state and festival array; her bonnet trembling with bows, red roses all over her gown, and a parasol of uncommon brilliancy brandished joyfully in her hand. It was better still to see her hug Christie, when the latter emerged, flushed and breathless, from the chaos of arms, legs, and chubby faces in which she was lost for several tumultuous moments; and it was best of all to see the good woman place her cherished “bunnit” in the middle of the parlor table as a choice and lovely ornament, administer the family pocket-handkerchief all round, and then settle down with a hearty: