its work well during that long walk from East Fifty-fifth Street to the
shadow of the alley. It made Dirk Colson tell it fiercely that he hated
himself; that he was a brute and a loafer,--a blot on the earth, and
ought not to live. Why didn't he go to work? Why didn't he have things
to bring home to Mart every little while, as Mark Calkins did to Sallie?
Hadn't he seen Mark, only a few evenings before he was hurt, with a pair
of girl's shoes strung over his shoulder, and heard him whistle as he
ran, two steps at a time, up the rickety stairs? What would Mart think
if he should bring her home a pair of shoes? What would she think of his
bringing her a flower? She would sneer, of course: and, in the mood
which then possessed him, Dirk said angrily that she had a right to
sneer, and would be a fool not to; and yet he hated the thought of it.
There was nothing in life that Dirk hated more than sneers; and he had
been fed on them ever since he could remember.

He was altogether unprepared for the reception which the lily received.
That suggestion about wings, which seemed so apt, had brought the
"queer" sound to his voice that Mart had noticed. If only she had
understood, and not spoiled, next morning, the effect of her words.

In the prosaic daylight, the illusion of "wings" being banished, she was
bent on knowing how Dirk came into possession of the lily.

"Who sent it, Dirk? I don't believe anybody told you to give it to me.
Who would care about _my_ having a flower? Where did you get it?"

"Where do you s'pose?" Dirk's voice was ominously gruff. It is a painful
truth that by daylight he was ashamed of his part of the transaction. "I
told you she sent it. It's noways likely that I'd take the trouble to
make up a lie about that weed. How do I know what she wanted you to have