failed. They met no one, but the solitude did not make itself felt
through her preoccupation. From time to time she dropped a word or two;
but for the most she was silent, and he did not attempt to lead. By and
by they came to an opener place, where there were many red field-lilies
tilting in the wind.

"Would you like some of those?" he asked, pulling up.

"I should, very much," she answered, glad of the sight of the gay things.
But when he had gathered her a bunch of the flowers she looked down at
them in her lap, and said, "It's silly in me to be caring for lilies at
such a time, and I should make an unfavorable impression on Dr. Mulbridge
if he saw me with them. But I shall risk their effect on him. He may
think I have been botanizing."

"Unless you tell him you have n't," the young man suggested.

"I need n't do that."

"I don't think any one else would do it."

She colored a little at the tribute to her candor, and it pleased her,
though it had just pleased her as much to forget that she was not like
any other young girl who might be simply and irresponsibly happy in
flowers gathered for her by a young man. "I won't tell him, either!" she
cried, willing to grasp the fleeting emotion again; but it was gone, and
only a little residue of sad consciousness remained.

The woods gave way on either side of the road, which began to be a
village street, sloping and shelving down toward the curve of a quiet