for you." So then they took hands, and Susan drew him demurely about
the garden. Presently she stopped with a little start of hypocritical
admiration; at their feet shone a marigold. Susan culled the gaudy
flower and placed it affectionately in George's buttonhole. He
received it proudly, and shaking hands with her, for it was time to
part, turned away slowly. She let him take a step or two, then called
him back. "He was really going off with that nasty thing." She took it
out of his buttonhole, rubbed it against his nose with well-feigned
anger and then threw it away.

"You are all behind in flowers, George," said Susan; "here, this is
good enough for you," and she brought out from under her apron, where
she had carried the furtively culled treasure, a lovely clove-pink.
Pretty soul, she had nursed and watered and cherished this choice
flower this three weeks past for George, and this was her way of
giving it him at last; so a true woman gives--(her life, if need be).
George took it and smelled it, and lingered a moment at the garden
gate, and moralized on it. "Well, Susan, dear, now I'm not so deep in
flowers as you, but I like this a deal better than the marigold, and
I'll tell you for why; it is more like you, Susan."

"Ay! why?"

"I see flowers that are pretty, but have no smell, and I see women
that have good looks, but no great wisdom nor goodness when you come
nearer to them. Now the marigold is like those lasses; but this pink
is good as well as pretty, so then it will stand for you, when we are
apart, as we mostly are--worse luck for me."

"Oh, George," said Susan, dropping her quizzing manner, "I am a long