must also have its particular name, just as I have mine. It is a soul
doing its Purgatory--a very good soul. If you are very good, then, when
you die, you do your Purgatory as a flower. But it is not such an easy
Purgatory--oh, no. For look: the flower is beautiful, but it is blind,
and cannot see; and it is fragrant, but it cannot smell; and people
admire it and praise it, but it is deaf, and cannot hear. It can only
wait, wait, wait, and think of God. But it is a short Purgatory. A few
days, and the flower will fade, and the soul will be released. I think
this flower's name is Cecilia, it is so white."

The smile in the lady's eyes had brightened, as she listened; and now
she gave a little laugh, a little, light, musical, pleased and friendly
laugh.

"Yes," she said. "I have sometimes wondered myself whether flowers might
not be the Purgatory of very good souls. I am glad to learn from you
that it is true. And yes, I should think that this flower's name was
sure to be Cecilia. Cecilia suits it perfectly. What, if one may ask, is
_your_ particular name?"

"Mariannunziata," said its bearer, not to make two bites of a cherry.

The lady's eyes grew round. "Dear me! A little short name like that?"
she marvelled.

"No," returned Annunziata, with dignity. "My name in full is longer. My
name in full is Giuliana Falconieri Maria Annunziata Casalone. Is that
not long enough?"

"Yes," the lady admitted, "that is just long enough." And she laughed