asleep, he could not wait. Are you feeling better, Bob?"

The soft, star-like eyes did not wander in their gaze.

"Why did you come?" he breathed finally. His voice was surprisingly
musical.

"Why?" faltered Ruth. "Oh, to bring you these roses. Do you care for
flowers, Bob?" She lifted the mass of delicate buds toward him. Two pale,
transparent hands went out to meet them. Tenderly as you sometimes see a
mother press the cheek of her babe to her own, he drew them to his cheek.

"Oh, my darlings, my darlings!" he murmured passionately, with his lips
pressed to the fragrant petals.

"Do you love them, then, so much?"

"Lady," replied the boy, raising himself to a sitting posture, "there is
nothing in the world to me like flowers."

"I never thought boys cared so for flowers," remarked Ruth, in surprise.

"I am a gardener," said he, simply, and again fell to caressing the roses.
Sitting up, he looked fully seventeen or eighteen years old.

"You must have missed them during your illness," observed Ruth.

A long sigh answered her. The boy rested his dreamy eyes upon her. He was
no longer ugly, with his thoughts illumining his face.