e, darlin'," O'mie
replied.

"Oh, O'mie, don't joke. I can't stand it to-night." Her face was white
and her eyes were full of pain.

"Indade, I'm not jokin'. I came up here to show you somethin' and to
tell you somethin'."

He took an old note book from his pocket and opened it to where a few
brown blossoms lay flatly pressed between the leaves.

"Thim's not pretty now, Marjie, but the day I got 'em they was dainty
an' pink as the dainty pink-cheeked girl whose brown curls they was
wreathed about. These are the flowers Phil Baronet put on your hair out
in the West Draw by the big cottonwood one April evenin' durin' the war;
the flowers Jean Pahusca kissed an' throwed away. But I saved 'em
because I love you, Marjie."

She shivered and bent her head.

"Oh, not like thim two ornery tramps who had these blossoms 'fore I got
'em, but like I'd love a sister, if I had one; like Father Le Claire
loves me. D'ye see?"

"You are a dear, good brother, O'mie," Marjie murmured, without lifting
her head.

"Oh, yis, I'm all av that an' more. Marjie, I'm goin' to kape these
flowers till--well, now, Marjie, shall I tell you whin?"

"Yes, O'mie," Marjie said faintly.

"Well, till I see the pretty white veil lifted fur friends to kiss the
bride an' I catch the scent av orange blossoms in thim soft little
waves." He put his hand gently on her bowed head. "I'll get to do it,
too," he went on, "not right away, but not fur off, nather; an' it won't
be a little man, ner a rid-headed Irishman, ner a sharp-nosed
school-teacher; but--Heaven bless an' kape him to-night!--it'll be a
big, broad-shouldered, handsome rascal, whose heart has niver changed
an' niver can change toward you, little sister, 'cause he's his
father's own son--lovin', constant, white an' clane through an' through.
Be patient. It's goin' to be all right for you two." He closed the book
and put it back in its place. "But I mustn't stay here. I've got to tag
Lettie some more. Her an' some others. That's what my tin days'
vacation's fur, mostly." And O'mie leaped through the bushes and was
gone.

The twilight was deepening when Marjie at last roused herself.

"I'll go down and see if he did get my letter," she murmured, taking her
way down the rough stair. There was no letter in the crevice where she
had placed it securely two nights before. Lifting her face upward she
clasped her hands in sorrow.

"He took it away, but he did not come to me. He knows I love him.