ms if she'd think 'twas
terrible queer."

"She's used to it," said Jerry raptly. "She must be. People with gifts
like that--why, of course folks go to see 'em."

He was removed and silent after this, and had scarcely a word for
Marietta's late-blooming calla that had held her in suspense through the
winter when she had wanted it, to unroll its austere deliciousness now
in the spring. She brought him the heavy pot almost timidly, and Jerry
put out his hand and touched the snowy texture of the bloom. But he did
it absently, and she understood that his mind was not with her, and that
there was little likelihood of his inditing a set of verses to the lily,
as she had hoped. He got up and carried it to the stand for her, and
there he paused for a moment beside it, coming awake, she thought. But
after that period of musing he took up his hat from the little table
between the windows and stood there holding it.

"Marietta," said he, with a simple and moved directness, "what if I
should carry her one of these?"

"One of my lilies?"

"Yes."

She brushed a bit of dust from a smooth green leaf, and the color rose
to her face. She seemed to conquer something.

"When you going?" she asked, in a subdued tone.

"I thought I'd go to-morrow."

"Well, you can have the lily, all three of 'em if you want--have 'em and
welcome."

He was at the door now, his hand on the latch. Marietta, watching him
still with that flush on her cheeks and a suffused look of the calm blue
eyes, noted how he stood gazing down, as if already he were planning his
trip, and as if the anticipation were affecting to him.

He straightened suddenly and met her glance.

"You're real good, Marietta," he said warmly. "I'll call in the morning
and get 'em."

"What time you going?"

"'Long about ten, I guess. Good-night."

When she heard the clang of the gate behind him she went slowly in and
stood by her lily for a moment, looking down at it, and not so much
thinking in any definite channel as feeling the queerness of things.
Marietta often had longings which she did not classify, for what seemed
such foolish matters that, unless she kept them under cover, folks might
laugh. The lily was not only a lily to her: it suggested a train of
bright imaginings. It was like snow, she thought, like a pale lovely
princess, like the sweet-smelling field flower that twisted round a
stalk in a beautiful swirl. It seemed quite appropriate to her that
Jerry should c