the check. Mrs. Bates clapped on the signature at her little old desk.
"There, my child. And good-luck to the club-room.

"And now business is over," she continued. "Do you like my posies?" She
nodded towards the window where, thanks to the hair-brush, a row of
flowers in a long narrow box blew about in the draught.

"Asters?"

"No, no, no! But I hoped you'd guess asters. They're chrysanthemums
--you see, fashion will penetrate even here. But they're the smallest and
simplest I could find. What do I care for orchids and American beauties,
and all those other expensive things under glass? How much does it please
me to have two great big formal beds of gladiolus and foliage plants in
the front yard, one on each side of the steps? Still, with our position,
I suppose it can't be helped. No; what I want is a bed of portulacca, and
some cypress vines running up strings to the top of a pole. As soon as I
get poor enough to afford it I'm going to have a lot of phlox and London
pride and bachelor's buttons out there in the back yard, and the girls
can run their clotheslines somewhere else."

"It's hard to keep flowers in a city," said Jane.

"I know it is. At our old house we had such a nice little rosebush in
the front yard. I hated so to leave it behind--one of those little
yellow brier-roses. No, it wasn't yellow; it was just--'yaller.' And it
always scratched my nose when I tried to smell it. But oh, child"--
wistfully--"if I could only smell it now!"

"Couldn't you have transplanted it?" asked Jane, sympathetically.