Nearly all the roses were half-opened buds; firm and stiff. Larger ones put in here and there gave the effect of mass. Closest contemplation enhanced the beauty of the whole. Each rose was perfect. The radiant mass was lovely throughout. The body of the basket curved firmly away to its slender hidden base; the smooth sweep of the rim and the delicate high arch of the handle held the roses perfectly framed. It was a perfect gift.... It had been quite enough to have the opportunity of doing little things for Mrs. Berwick ... the surprise of the roses. The _surprise_ of them. Roses, roses, roses ... all the morning they had stood, making the morning's work happy; visible all over the room. Everyone in the house had had the beautiful shock of them. And they were still as they had been when they had been gathered in the dew. If they were in water by the end of the afternoon the buds would revive and expand ... even after the hours in the Lyceum. If they were thrown now into the waste-paper basket it would not matter. They would go on being perfect--to the end of life. "And as long; as my heart is bea-ting; as long; as my eyes; have; tears." * * * * * Winthrop came up punctually at one o'clock as he had promised. "It would save you comin' down if I was to ph-come up." It would go on then. He had thought about it and meant to do it. She opened the cash box quickly and deftly in her gratitude and handed him his four sovereigns and the money for the second mechanic and the apprentices. He waited gently while she counted it out. Next Saturday she would have it ready for him. "Thank you Miss----; ph--ph _Good_ afternoon" he said cheerfully. "Good afternoon Mr. Winthrop" she responded busily with all her heart and listened as he clattered away downstairs. A load was lifted from Saturday mornings, for good. No more going down to run the gauntlet of the row of eyes and get herself along the bench, depositing the various sums. Nothing in future but the letters, the overhauling of Mr. Hancock's empty surgery, the easy lunch with Mr. Leyton, and the week-end. She entered the sums in the petty cash book. There was that. They would always be that week after week. But to-day the worrying challenge of it disappeared in the joy of the last entry. "Self" she wrote, the light across the outspread prospect of her life steadying and deepening as she wrote, "one pound, five." The five, written down, sent a thrill from the contemplated page. Taking the customary sovereign from the cash-box she placed it carefully in the middle pocket of her purse and closed the clip. The five shillings she distributed about the side-pockets; half a crown, a shilling, two sixpenny bits and six coppers. The purse was full of money. By September she would have about four pounds five in hand and two pounds ten of her month's holiday money still unspent; six pounds fifteen; she could go to a matinée every week