well
adapted to captivate the imagination of a young, ardent, and solitary
spirit like Leonard.

He would have called on the lady he suspected, and thanked her for her
kindness. But this, he feared, would be unwelcome, since she chose to be
his unknown benefactress. It would be ill taste in him to tell her he
had found her out: it might offend her sensibility, and then she would
draw in.

He kept his gratitude, therefore, to himself, and did not cool it by
utterance. He often sat among the flowers, in a sweet revery, enjoying
their color and fragrance; and sometimes he would shut his eyes, and
call up the angelical face, with great, celestial, upturned orbs, and
fancy it among her own flowers, and the queen of them all.

These day-dreams did not at that time interfere with his religious
duties. They only took the place of those occasional hours when, partly
by the reaction consequent on great religious fervor, partly by
exhaustion of the body weakened by fasts, partly by the natural delicacy
of his fibre and the tenderness of his disposition, his soul used to be
sad.

By and by these languid hours, sad no longer, became sweet and dear to
him. He had something so interesting to think of, to dream about. He had
a Madonna that cared for him in secret.

She was human; but good, beautiful, and wise. She came to his sermons,
and understood every word.

"And she knows me better than I know myself," said he; "since I had
these flowers from her hand, I am another man."

One day he came into his room and found two watering-pots there. One was
large and had a rose to it, the other small and with a plain spout.

"Ah!" said he; and colored with delight. He called Betty, and asked her
who had brought them.

"How should I know?" said she, roughly. "I dare say they dropped from
heaven. See, there is a cross painted on 'em in gold letters."

"And so there is!" said Leonard, and crossed himself.

"That means nobody is to use them but you, I trow," said Betty, rather
crossly.

The priest's cheek colored high. "I will use them this instant," said
he. "I will revive my drooping children as they have revived me." And he
caught up a watering-pot with ardor.

"What, with the sun hot upon 'em?" screamed Betty. "Well, saving your
presence, you _are_ a simple man."

"Why, good Betty, 't is the sun that makes them faint," objected the
priest, timidly, and with the utmost humility of manner, though Betty's
tone would have irritat