intense
love of love and of living that filled her whole soul and made her
gratitude to me partake almost of the nature of adoration. I think it was
years before she could see me without recalling the whole scene so vividly
that tears would fill her eyes. Often she would suddenly seize both my
hands in hers, kiss them and say, "Oh! but for these dear, strong, brave
little hands, where should I be!" And whenever we parted for a length of
time she was overshadowed by presentiment. "I know it is superstitious and
silly," she would say, "but I cannot shake off the feeling that I am safer
in the same town with you. I believe if any harm were to threaten me you
would be near."

But the story I am to tell now is not the story of Dora Maynard's life
after I knew her, nor of our friendship and love for each other, rare and
beautiful as they were. It is the story of her girlhood, and of the
strange wood-carving which stood on the gilded table in the bed of purple
anemones.

One morning in April, as I climbed the long stone stairs which led to her
apartment, I met Anita, the flower-woman who carried flowers to her every
day. Anita looked troubled.

"What is the matter, my Anita?" said I; "is the Signora ill?"

"Ah no, thank the Blessed Virgin!" said Anita; "the dearest, most
beautiful of Signoras is well, but I am obliged to tell her to-day that
there are no more anemones. Biagio went yesterday to the farthest corner
of the Villa Doria, to a dark shady spot beyond the Dove-Cote, which the
strangers know not, hoping to find some; but the heavy rains had beaten
them all down--there is no longer one left. And the Signora had tears in
her eyes when I told her; and she did not care for all the other beautiful
flowers; she said none of them could go on the gold table; never yet has
the Signora put any flowers on the gold table except the purple anemones,"
and real tears stood in old Anita's eyes.

"Why, Anita," said I, "I am sure some other flowers would look very pretty
there. I do not believe the Signora will be unhappy about it."

Anita shook her head and half smiled with a look of pitying compassion.

"But, Signora, you do not know; that dearest and most beautiful of
Signoras has visions from the angels about her flowers. Holy Virgin! if
she would but come and hang flowers around the Bambino in our church! None
of the Holy Sisters can so weave them as she does; she makes Festa forever
in the house for the Signor; and I think