was my work. I wanted to work, and I was glad that it was hard, and that
the stones were all that I could lift,--it made it seem more like doing
something."

The Dream was silent for a moment, and Marjorie stood dabbling the toe
of her shoe in the water. At last, "Were you selfish?" asked the Dream.

"Yes," said Marjorie, in a low voice, "I was." Then she went back and
gathered up her roses, and she and the Dream walked slowly on, soon
finding themselves on the outskirts of a town.

Presently the streets grew dingy and the houses high and narrow. "I
don't see anything to do here," said Marjorie. "Couldn't we go back into
the country again?"

"Don't you see anything to do?" asked the Dream, and just then Marjorie
noticed a little child standing on the curbing, it's hands clasped and
it's eyes fixed upon the bunch of roses.

Selecting the largest and most beautiful one, she placed it in the
child's hands,--and a little farther on she gave two to a weary-looking
woman,--and then a bud to an old man whose eyes moistened, and whose
fingers trembled as he placed it in his button-hole,--and then a flower
to a ragged, hard-featured boy, who held it awkwardly for a moment, his
face transfigured, and then dived into the door of a dismal tenement.
And all the way up the squalid street Marjorie distributed her bright
blossoms, and always with a cheery word and smile.

At last the houses began to be farther and farther apart, and the yards
larger, and presently they found themselves back in the open country