ty of school-girls
came along with their satchels and spelling-books. They giggled and
stared as they passed the fence, and one of them, a handsome,
long-legged, bold-faced thing, said aloud, "Oh my! Look at me and my
fancy beau a-takin' a walk!"

Putnam glanced at his companion, who colored nervously and looked away.
"Saucy little giglets!" he laughed. "Did you hear what she said?"

"Yes," almost inaudibly.

"I hope it didn't annoy you?"

"It was very rude," walking on.

"Well, I rather like naughty school-girls: they are amusing creatures.
When I was a very small boy I was sent to a girls' school, and I used to
study their ways. They always had crumbs in their apron-pockets; they
used to write on a slate, 'Tommy is a good boy,' and hold it up for me
to see when the teacher wasn't looking; they borrowed my geography at
recess and painted all the pictures vermilion and yellow." He paused,
but she said nothing, and he continued, talking against time, "There was
one piece of chewing-gum in that school which circulated from mouth to
mouth. It had been originally spruce gum, I believe, but it was
masticated beyond recognition: the parent tree wouldn't have known her
child. One day I found it hidden away on a window-sill behind the
shutter. It was flesh-colored and dented all over with the marks of
sharp little teeth. I kept that chewing-gum for a week, and the school
was like a cow that's lost her cud."

As Putnam completed these reminiscences they entered the cemetery-gate,
and the shadow of its arch seemed to fall across the young girl's soul.
The bashful color had faded from her cheek and the animation from her
eye. Her face wore a troubled expression: she walked slowly and looked
about at the gravestones.

Putnam stopped talking abruptly, but presently said, "You have not asked
me for your fuchsias."

She stood still and held out her hand for them.

"I thought you might be meaning to let me keep them," said Putnam. His
heart beat fast and his voice trembled as he continued: "Perhaps you
thought that what I said a while ago was said in joke, but I mean it in
real earnest."

"Mean what?" she asked faintly.

"Don't you know what I mean?" he said, coming nearer and taking her
hand. "Shall I tell you, darling?"

"Oh, please don't! Oh, I think I know. Not here--not now. Give me the
flowers," she said, disengaging her hand, "and I will put them on
Henry's grave."

He handed them to her and said, "I won't go o