hands, were clear and cool as
ice, but in her smile was all the warm profusion of that corner; the
sweetness had soaked into her, and was welling forth again. The sight of
those sun-warmed cheeks, and fingers twining round the flower-stalks, her
pearly teeth, and hair all fragrant, stole the reason out of Shelton. He
stood before her, weak about the knees.

"Found you at last!" he said.

Curving back her neck, she cried out, "Catch!" and with a sweep of both
her hands flung the flowers into Shelton's arms.

Under the rain of flowers, all warm and odorous, he dropped down on his
knees, and put them one by one together, smelling at the pinks, to hide
the violence of his feelings. Antonia went on picking flowers, and every
time her hand was full she dropped them on his hat, his shoulder, or his
arms, and went on plucking more; she smiled, and on her lips a little
devil danced, that seemed to know what he was suffering. And Shelton
felt that she did know.

"Are you tired?" she asked; "there are heaps more wanted. These are the
bedroom-flowers--fourteen lots. I can't think how people can live
without flowers, can you?" and close above his head she buried her face
in pinks.

He kept his eyes on the plucked flowers before him on the grass, and
forced himself to answer,

"I think I can hold out."

"Poor old Dick!" She had stepped back. The sun lit the clear-cut
profile of her cheek, and poured its gold over the bosom of her blouse.
"Poor old Dick! Awfully hard luck, is n't it?" Burdened with
mignonette, she came so close again that now she touched his shoulder,
but Shelton did not look; breathless, with wildly beating heart, he went
on sorting out the flowers. The seeds of mignonette rained on his neck,
and as she let the blossoms fall, their perfume fanned his face. "You
need n't sort them out!" she said.

Was she enticing him? He stole a look; but she was gone again, swaying
and sniffing at the flowers.

"I suppose I'm only hindering you," he growled; "I 'd better go."

She laughed.

"I like to see you on your knees, you look so funny!" and as she spoke
she flung a clove carnation at him. "Does n't it smell good?"

"Too good Oh, Antonia! why are you doing this?"

"Why am I doing what?"

"Don't you know what you are doing?"

"Why, picking flowers!" and once more she was back, bending and sniffing
at the blossoms.

"That's enough."

"Oh no," she called; "it's not not nearly.

"Keep on