blessin' TWO timesh."

And Budge said gravely:--

"NOW I guess we are all right."

The supper was an exquisite one, but the appetites of those dreadful
children effectually prevented my enjoying the repast. I hastily
retired, called the girl, and instructed, her to see that the children
had enough to eat, and were put to bed immediately after; then I lit a
cigar and strolled into the garden. The roses were just in bloom, the
air was full of the perfume of honeysuckles, the rhododendrons had not
disappeared, while I saw promise of the early unfolding of many other
pet flowers of mine. I confess that I took a careful survey of the
garden to see how fine a bouquet I might make for Miss Mayton, and was
so abundantly satisfied with the material before me that I longed to
begin the work at once, but that it would seem too hasty for true
gentility. So I paced the paths, my hands behind my back, and my face
well hidden by fragrant clouds of smoke, and went into wondering and
reveries. I wondered if there was any sense in the language of flowers,
of which I had occasionally seen mention made by silly writers; I
wished I had learned it if it had any meaning; I wondered if Miss
Mayton understood it. At any rate, I fancied I could arrange flowers to
the taste of any lady whose face I had ever seen; and for Alice Mayton
I would make something so superb that her face could not help lighting
up when she beheld it. I imagined just how her bluish-gray eyes would
brighten, her cheeks would redden,--not with sentiment, not a bit of
it; but with genuine pleasure,--how her strong lips would part slightly
and disclose sweet lines not displayed when she held her features well
in hand. I--I, a clear-headed, driving, successful salesman of white
goods--actually wished I might be divested of all nineteenth-century
abilities and characteristics, and be one of those fairies that only
silly girls and crazy poets think of, and might, unseen, behold the
meeting of my flowers with this highly cultivated specimen of the only
sort of flowers our cities produce. What flower did she most resemble?
A lily?--no; too--not exactly too bold, but too--too, well, I couldn't
think of the word, but clearly it wasn't bold. A rose! Certainly, not
like those glorious but blazing remontants, nor yet like the shy,
delicate, ethereal tea-roses with their tender suggestions of color.
Like this perfect Gloire de Dijon, perhaps; strong, vigorous,
self-asserting, among i