tangled mass of garden flowers in looking at the red
rose. She even forgot that it was incumbent upon her to carry forward
the conversation. Mrs. Bickford was subject to fits of untimely
silence which made her friends anxiously sweep the corners of their
minds in search of something to say, but any one who looked at her now
could easily see that it was not poverty of thought that made her
speechless, but an overburdening sense of the inexpressible.

"Goin' to make up all your flowers into bo'quets? I think the
short-stemmed kinds is often pretty in a dish," suggested Miss
Pendexter compassionately.

"I thought I should make them into three bo'quets. I wish there wa'n't
quite so many. Sister Eliza's very lavish with her flowers; she's
always been a kind sister, too," said Mrs. Bickford vaguely. She was
not apt to speak with so much sentiment, and as her neighbor looked at
her narrowly she detected unusual signs of emotion. It suddenly became
evident that the three nosegays were connected in her mind with her
bereavement of three husbands, and Miss Pendexter's easily roused
curiosity was quieted by the discovery that her friend was bent upon a
visit to the burying-ground. It was the time of year when she was
pretty sure to spend an afternoon there, and sometimes they had taken
the walk in company. Miss Pendexter expected to receive the usual
invitation, but there was nothing further said at the moment, and she
looked again at the pretty rose.

Mrs. Bickford aimlessly handled the syringas and flowering almond
sprays, choosing them out of the fragrant heap only to lay them down
again. She glanced out of the window; then gave Miss Pendexter a long
expressive look.

"I expect you're going to carry 'em over to the burying-ground?"
inquired the guest, in a sympathetic tone.

"Yes 'm," said the hostess, now well started in conversation and in
quite her every-day manner. "You see I was goin' over to my brother's
folks to-morrow in South Fairfield, to pass the day; they said they
were goin' to send over to-morrow to leave a wagon at the
blacksmith's, and they'd hitch that to their best chaise, so I could
ride back very comfortable. You know I have to avoid bein' out in the
mornin' sun?"

Miss Pendexter smiled to herself at this moment; she was obliged to
move from her chair at the window, the May sun was so hot on her back,
for Mrs. Bickford always kept the curtains rolled high up, out of the
way, for fear of fading and du