apple blossoms and begonias and geraniums, and all the flowers that
she knowed. If some were peculiar and didn't look like much o'
anything she called them jest wild flowers. She made them all into
bouquets. And there wasn't a new baby born in the village but that
the mother found by her bedside a bouquet of Mis' Sweet's, and no
bride went to the altar but she had a little piece o' orange blossom
on her that had been lovingly pinned on by Mis' Sweet, and before the
lid was closed over our dead--they had slipped in their fingers a
little flower from their old neighbor. And do you think that we
laughed at her stiff little bouquets? No! We all loved 'em and we
understood, 'cause with each leaf made out of our old window shades
and from each wire from our wore out brooms, there was a little love
mixed in with the coverin'."

She was silent for a few moments; then she added:

"And I think that this young poet will find a way to give something
to the world, if he really loves it and wants to give, same as Mis'
Sweet did."

They were returning home along the drive.

"We haven't made half the calls that we should," Daphne said. "We
must go another day."

Drusilla shook her head decisively.

"No; I won't make no more calls."

"Oh, but, Miss Doane, you _must_. You must return your calls."