p." How many boys of twelve hear
such words as these from tired, overburdened mothers?

Soon came the city, the final station, with its bustle and noise. I
lingered to watch my happy family, hoping to see the father. "Why, papa
isn't here!" exclaimed one disappointed little voice after another. "Never
mind," said the mother, with a still deeper disappointment in her own
tone; "perhaps he had to go to see some poor body who is sick." In the
hurry of picking up all the parcels, and the sleepy babies, the poor
daisies and buttercups were left forgotten in a corner of the rack. I
wondered if the mother had not intended this. May I be forgiven for the
injustice! A few minutes after I passed the little group, standing still
just outside the station, and heard the mother say, "Oh, my darlings, I
have forgotten your pretty bouquets. I am so sorry! I wonder if I could
find them if I went back. Will you all stand still and not stir from this
spot if I go?"

"Oh, mamma, don't go, don't go. We will get you some more. Don't go,"
cried all the children.

"Here are your flowers, madam," said I. "I saw that you had forgotten
them, and I took them as mementoes of you and your sweet children." She
blushed and looked disconcerted. She was evidently unused to people, and
shy with all but her children. However, she thanked me sweetly, and
said,--

"I was very sorry about them. The children took such trouble to get them;
and I think they will revive in water. They cannot be quite dead."

"They will _never_ die!" said I, with an emphasis which went from my heart
to hers. Then all her shyness fled. She knew me; and we shook hands, and
smiled into each other's eyes with the smile of kindred as we parted.

As I followed on, I heard the two children, who were walking behind,
saying to each other, "Wouldn't that have been too bad? Mamma liked them
so much, and we never could have got so many all at once again."

"Yes, we could, too, next summer," said the boy, sturdily.

They are sure of their "next summers," I think, all six of those
souls,--children, and mother, and father. They may never again gather so
many ox-eye daisies and buttercups "all at once." Perhaps some of the
little hands have already picked their last flowers. Nevertheless, their
summers are certain. To such souls as these, all trees, either here or in
God's larger country, are Trees of Life, with twelve manner of fruits and
leaves for healing; and it is but little change