hand traced the inscription, "Your disconsolate C. St. J."

She sealed it in an envelope, then regarded the florist sternly.

"Are you a Mason?" she asked, her eye on the crescent in his buttonhole.

"Y--yes," he acknowledged.

"Then you understand the nature of an oath of secrecy? You are not to
divulge to anyone the sender of these flowers. The tall young lady with
the yellow hair will come in here and try to make you tell who sent
them. You are not to remember. It may even have been a man. You don't
know anything about it. This secret society at Saint Ursula's is so very
much more secret than the Masonic Society, that it is even a secret that
it exists. Do you understand?"

"I--yes, ma'am," he grinned.

"If it becomes known," she added darkly, "I shall not be responsible for
your life."

She and Priscilla each contributed a quarter for the flowers.

"It's going to be expensive," Patty sighed. "I think we'll have to ask
Miss Sallie for an extra allowance while this committee is in session."

Mae was in her room, surrounded by an assemblage of her special
followers, when the flowers arrived. She received the box in some
bewilderment.

"He's sending flowers on Wednesdays as well as Saturdays!" her room-mate
cried. "He must be getting desperate."

Mae opened the box amid an excited hush.

"How perfectly lovely!" they cried in chorus, though with a slightly
perfunctory undertone. They would have preferred crimson roses.

Mae regarded the offering for a moment of stupefied amazement. She had
been pretending so long, that by now she almost believed in Cuthbert
herself. The circle was waiting, and she rallied her powers to meet this
unexpected crisis.

"I wonder what sunflowers mean?" she asked softly. "They must convey
some message. Does anybody know the language of flowers?"

Nobody did know the language of flowers; but they were relieved at the
suggestion.

"Here's a card!" Evalina Smith plucked it from among the bristling
leaves.

Mae made a motion to examine it in private, but she had been so generous
with her confidences heretofore, that she was not allowed to withdraw
them at this interesting point. They leaned over her shoulder and read
it aloud.

"'Your disconsolate C. St. J.'--Oh, Mae, think how he must be
suffering!"

"Poor man!"

"He simply couldn't remain silent any longer."

"He's the soul of honor," said Mae. "He wouldn't write a real letter
because he promised not to, but I suppose