"November--November," he muttered. "A touch of snow too--and violets
and roses."

He leaned toward me fiercely. "Violets come in May," he said. "This
here is a matter of weeks."

"I'm serious, Perry," said I. "Books are the thing, and flowers; not
wreaths and statues and paintings. You must send something that
carries some sentiment with it."

He saw that I was in earnest, and his countenance became brighter.

"Geraniums," he muttered; thumping the table. "I'll get Mrs. Arker to
let me have one of them window-plants of hers, and I'll put it in a new
tomato-can and paint it. How's that for a starter?"

"I've never read about men sending geraniums," I replied. "It's odd,
but I never have. I suppose the can makes them seem a little
unwieldly. Still----"

"I had thought of forty-graph album." Perry spoke timidly again.

I had no mind to let him venture any more suggestions. His was too
fickle a fancy, and I had settled on an easy solution of the problem.
He was to send her a geranium. Somehow, I knew deep down in my own
heart, ill versed as I was in such things, that I should never send her
such a gift myself. I would climb to the top of Gander Knob for a wild
rose or rhododendron; I would stir the leaves from the gap to the river
in search of a simple spray of arbutus for her. But step before her