rent sprigs, leaves or
flowers, carefully among its pages and put them to dry. She loved every
leaf of them. They were associated in her mind with all that pleasant
interlude of Christmas: Pitt's coming, his kindness; their going after
greens together, and dressing the house. The bright interlude was past;
Pitt had gone back to college; and the little girl cherished the faded
green things as something belonging to that good time which was gone.
She would dry them carefully and keep them always, she thought.

A day or two later, her father noticed that the vase was empty, and
asked Esther what she had done with her flowers?

'They were withered, papa; they were spoilt; I could not keep them.'

'What did you do with them?'

'Papa, I thought I would try to dry them.'

'Yes, and what did you do with them?'

'Papa, I put them in that old, odd volume of the Encyclopaedia.'

'Bring it here and let me see.'

Much wondering and a little discomfited, Esther obeyed. She brought the
great book to the side of the sofa, and turned over the pages
carefully, showing the dried and drying leaves. She had a great love to
them; what did her father want with them?

'What do you propose to do with those things, when they are dry? They
are staining the book.'

'It's an old book, papa; it is no harm, is it?'

'What are you going to do with them? Are they to remain here
permanently?'

'Oh, no, sir; they are only put here to dry. I put a weight on the
book. They will be dry soon.'

'And what then?'

'Then I will take them out, papa. It's an old book.'

'And what will you do with them?'

'I will keep them, sir.'

'What is the use of keeping the flowers after their beauty is gone? I
do not think that is worth while.'

'_Some_ of their beauty is gone,' said Esther, with a certain
tenderness for the plants manifested in her manner,--'but I love them
yet, papa.'

'That is not wise, my child. Why should you love a parcel of dry
leaves? Love what is worthy to be loved. I think I would throw them all
in the fire.'

'Oh, papa!'

'That's the best, my dear. They are only rubbish. I object to the
hoarding of rubbish. It is a poor habit.'

The colonel turned his attention again to his book, and perhaps did not
even remark how Esther sat with a disconsolate face on the floor,
looking at her condemned treasures. He would not have understood it if
he had seen. In his nature there was no key to the feeling which now
was driving the