now," said Putnam, "that what you've just said gives me a good
deal of encouragement?"

"Encouragement? How?"

"Well, it's the first really feminine thing--At least--no, I don't mean
that. But it makes me think that you are more like other girls."

His explanation was interrupted by the entrance of the gardener.

"Will you select some of those orchids, please--if you like them, that
is?" asked Putnam.

A shade passed over her face. "They are too gay for his--for Henry," she
answered.

"Try to tolerate a little brightness to-day," he pleaded in a low voice.
"You must dedicate this morning to me: it's the last, you know."

"I will take a few of them if you wish it, but not this one. I will take
that little white one and that large purple one."

The gardener reached down the varieties which she pointed out, and they
passed along the alley to select other flowers. She chose a number of
white roses, dark-shaded fuchsias and English violets, and then they
left the place. Her expression had grown thoughtful, though not
precisely sad. They walked slowly up the long shady street leading to
the cemetery.

"I am dropping some of the flowers," she said, stopping: "will you carry
these double fuchsias a minute, please, while I fasten the others?"

He took them and laughed. "Now, if this were in a novel," he said, "what
a neat opportunity for me to say, 'May I not _always_ carry your double
fuchsias?'"

She looked at him quickly, and her brown cheek blushed rosy red, but she
started on without making any reply and walked faster.

"She takes," he said to himself. But he saw the cemetery-gate at the end
of the street. "I must make this walk last longer," he thought.
Accordingly, he invented several cunning devices to prolong it, stopping
now and then to point out something worth noting in the handsome grounds
which lined the street. And so they sauntered along, she appearing to
have forgotten the speech which had embarrassed her, or at least she did
not resent it. They paused in front of a well-kept lawn, and he drew her
attention to the turf. "It's almost as dark as the evergreens," he said.

"Yes," she answered, "it's so green that it's almost blue."

"What do you suppose makes the bees gather round that croquet-stake so?"

"I reckon they take the bright colors on it for flowers," she answered,
with a certain quaintness of fancy which he had often remarked in her.

As they stood there leaning against the fence a par