well."

"O yes, I can — please, grandpa! I want some of it very much —
just one minute!'

He stopped, and Fleda got out and went to the roadside, where
a bittersweet vine had climbed into a young pine tree, and
hung it, as it were, with red coral. But her one minute was at
least four before she had succeeded in breaking off as much as
she could carry of the splendid creeper; for not until then
could Fleda persuade herself to leave it. She came back, and
worked her way up into the wagon with one hand full as it
could hold of her brilliant trophies.

"Now, what good 'll that do you?" inquired Mr. Ringgan, good-
humouredly, as he lent Fleda what help he could to her seat.

"Why, grandpa, I want it to put with cedar and pine in a jar
at home; it will keep for ever so long, and look beautiful.
Isn't that handsome? — only it was a pity to break it."

"Why, yes, it's handsome enough," said Mr. Ringgan, "but
you've got something just by the front door there, at home,
that would do just as well — what do you call it — that
flaming thing there?"

"What, my burning bush? O grandpa! I wouldn't cut that for
anything in the world! It's the only pretty thing about the
house; and, besides," said Fleda, looking up with a softened
mien, "you said that it was planted by my mother. O grandpa! I