"Marechal Niel," she heard him whisper, still with his eyes upon her, "all
in soft, radiant robes like a gracious queen. Lady, you fit well next my
Homer rose."

"What Homer rose?" asked Ruth, humoring the flower-poet's odd conceit.

"My strong, brave Homer. There is none like him for strength, with all his
gentle perfume folded close to his heart. I used to think these Duchesses
would suit him best; but now, having seen you, I know they were too frail,
--Marechal Niel." It was impossible to resent openly the boy's musings;
but with a quick insistence that stemmed the current of his thoughts, she
said, --

"Tell me where you suffer, Bob."

"I do not suffer. I am only weak; but he is nourishing me, and Mrs. Mills
brings me what he orders."

"And is there anything you would like to have of which you forgot to tell
him?"

"I never tell him anything I wish," replied the boy, proudly. "He knows
beforehand. Did you never draw up close to a delicate flower, lay your
cheek softly upon it, so, --close your eyes, so, --and listen to the tale
it's telling? Well, that is what my good friend does always."

It was like listening to music to hear the slow, drawling words of the
invalid. Ruth's hand closed softly over his.

"I have some pretty stories at home about flowers," she said; "would you