would. But what language would the silent, lovely things speak to her
untutored boys? They said not a word; not one of them. They made no
exclamations; they had no superlatives at command. But Stephen Crowley
stooped before a lovely carnation, and smelled, and _smelled_,
drawing in long breaths, as though he meant to take its fragrance all
away with him; and Nimble Dick picked up the straying end of an ivy, and
restored it to its support again, in a way that was not to be lost sight
of by one who was looking for hearts; and Dirk Colson brushed back his
matted hair and stood long before a great, pure lily, and looked down
into its heart with an expression on his face that his teacher never
forgot.

She came over to him presently, standing beside him, saying nothing.
Then at last she reached forth her hand and broke the lily from its
stalk. He started, almost as if something had struck him.

"What did you do that for?" And his voice was fierce.

"I want you to take this for me to your sister--the girl with beautiful
golden hair; I saw her one day, and I shall remember her hair and eyes.
She will like this flower, and she will like you to bring it to her.

"Gracie"--raising her voice--"gather some flowers will you, and make
into bouquets? These young gentlemen will like to carry them to some one.
There must be mothers at home who will enjoy bouquets brought by their
sons."

Over this gently-spoken sentence Nimble Dick laughed a hard, derisive
laugh. It made the dark blood flow into black Dirk's indignant face.
Even Alfred Ried lost self-control for a moment, and flashed a glance at