To keep her from talking would do more harm than to let her
talk. The fever in her soul was greater, more consuming, than that in
her body. I did not try to stop her.

"I don't remember where each thing was in grandmother's garden." I
moved my chair a little closer to her cot. "But I remember the
gooseberry-bushes were just behind a long bed of lilies-of-the-valley.
It seemed so queer they should be together."

"Lilies of the valley grow anywhere. Mother's bed got bigger every
year. There was a large circle of them around a mound in the middle of
our garden, and they were fringed with violets. One February our
minister's wife died. They didn't have any flowers, and it seemed so
dreadful not to have any that I went into the garden to see if I
couldn't find something. The ground was covered with snow, but the
week before had been warm, and, going to one of the beds, I brushed the
snow away and found a lot of white violets. They were blooming under
the snow. I pulled them and took them to the minister, and he put them
in her hands. They used to put flowers in people's hands when they
were dead. I don't know whether they do it now or not."

"Sometimes it is done." I took up the sewing an my lap and made a few
stitches. "Tell me some more of your mother's garden. Did she have
winter pinks and bachelor's buttons and snap-dragons and hollyhocks in
it? I used to hate grandmother's hollyhocks. They were so haughty."

"We did not have any, but we had bridal-wreath and spirea and a big
pomegranate-bush. There were two large oleanders in tubs at the foot
of the front steps. One was mine, the other was my sister's. My
sister is married now and lives out West. She has two children."

A bird on the bough of the apple-tree began to twitter. For a moment
Lillie listened, then again she looked at me, in her eyes that which I
had noticed several times before, a look of torturing fear and pain and
shame.

"Do"--her voice was low--"do you know about me?"

"Yes, I know about you."

"You know--and--and still you talk to me? I don't understand. Why did
you come down here? You don't belong in Scarborough Square."

"Why not? I have no one who needs me." I held my bit of sewing off,
looked at it carefully. "Other women have their homes, their husbands
and children, or their families, or duties or obligations of some sort,
which they cannot leave, even if they wanted to know, to understand
better how they m