that each one was decked with a sprig from the bouquet, pulled through
his button-hole or the riband of his hat.

Only the tallest musician, who walked somewhat apart, carried his flower
tightly clasped in his hand, and now and again he raised it to his lips.
He probably dreamed over it that night, and played his dream out in
a gentle, wistful, minor adoration before the Madonna at the Quattro
Fontane the next morning.

O, the dreams and poems and songs without words that drop into our lives
from the sudden flash of stranger eyes, or the accidental touch of an
unknown hand, or the tender warmth of a swift smile! And if our eyes,
our touch, our smiles may only have floated off in like manner--as
dreams and poems and melody--to give added rhythm and harmony to other
lives.

Mae drew a long sigh, one of those delightful, contented sighs, with a
smile wrapped up in it. "I am glad you are so happy," said Norman Mann,
smiling down at her. When Norman spoke like that Mae felt only, O, so
very content. She quite forgot all grudges against him; she would have
liked just at that moment to have the world stand quite still. This was
very different from the ordinary Mae. Usually she longed that it might
go faster, and would put her pink and white ear quite close to the brown
earth to hear if it were turning as swiftly as ever it could. "I like
it to hurry, hurry, hurry," said eager, restless Mae. "I love to live
quickly and see what's coming next."

But Mae was not in that mood to-night. She leaned out of the window all
untroubled. If the sun could stand still off behind the world--as he is
now--and the moon could stand still right before us--as she is now--and