Her mother broke into low, heart-broken sobbing, and buried her face in her handkerchief. “Tell us how it came about, Aline,” said her father, impatiently. “It was just in this way, papa. I was angry because I was left at home that day, and I threw the book mamma had given me to read out of my window into Mr. Delaney’s garden.” “Well, go on,” he said, as she paused a moment. Aline continued: “You see, papa and mamma, I had no idea Mr. Delaney was walking in his garden that morning. But he was, and when I threw the book it struck him sharply on his head. He looked up and saw me, and then I was frightened at what I had done. I spoke to him. I apologized to him and explained that it was an accident.” “And then?” asked Mr. Rodney. “He excused me after amusing himself with me a little while. He evidently thought me nothing but a child,” said Aline. “I am sure I acted like a child. I told him how much I wanted some of the beautiful roses in his garden. So he brought an old step-ladder, placed it under the window, and told me to come down and take all the flowers I wanted.” “My God!” groaned her father, gazing at her in despair. “I did not mean to do anything wrong. It was only one of my willful escapades, and I never thought that it could end more seriously than my other girlish freaks. I went down the ladder, papa, but, indeed, indeed, I did not mean to stay ten minutes. I just meant to have one breath of the sweet air under those shady trees, and a bunch of the roses, and then to come back before cook should find out my absence.” “Why, then, did you stay?” he inquired. “That, too, was the result of my thoughtlessness and folly. When I found myself in the garden, among the beautiful flowers, I wandered away by myself, absorbed in the pleasant task of gathering a huge bouquet to brighten my lonely room. I was so charmed that I forgot everything else in my fascinating task. The poet has given us a pretty and appropriate quotation, papa,” she said, looking at him with a faint, quivering smile on her marble-white face. She repeated it softly: “Too late I stayed--forgive the crime! Unheeded flew the hours. How noiseless falls the foot of Time That only treads on flowers!” Then she resumed, in a low, sad voice: “It was just like that with me, papa. I did not remember anything but my pleasure in the sweet, fragrant flowers. I kissed their fragrant velvety faces a hundred times. I patted them softly with loving hands. I knelt down and whispered to them as if they had been sentient, human beings. I was filled with pleasure at their lovely forms and exquisite colors. I gathered one here, another there, until my hands were full. Never did Time fly so fast. It trod on flowers, indeed, but, ah me! ah me!” she sighed, clasping her small hands together in agony, “since then its flight has been slow and dreary, over thorny paths with bleeding feet.” They gazed upon her in troubled silence, knowing not what to say.