low tone. "I shall not say anything, Massachusetts, and I hope you
will not. Don't you know?" she added, seeing her friend's look of
inquiry. "Those are my scarlet leaves."

"No!"

"Yes. I have found out all about it. Daisy lingered behind the rest
of us the other day, when I had been telling you all about the leaves,
to pick blackberries. She saw Chicago come out of the wood a few
minutes after we left, looking black as thunder. Don't you remember,
I thought I heard a rustling in the fern, and you laughed at me? She
was hidden there, and heard every word we said. Next day the leaves
were gone, and now they are on Chicago's dress instead of mine."

"And a far better place for them!" exclaimed Massachusetts,
"though I am awfully sorry for her. Oh! you lucky, lucky girl! and
you dear, precious, stupid ignoramus, not to know poison dogwood
when you see it."

"Poison dogwood! those beautiful leaves!"

"Those beautiful leaves. That young woman is in for about two weeks
of as pretty a torture as ever Inquisitor or Iroquois could devise.
I know all about it, though there was a time when I also was ignorant.
Look! she is feeling of her cheek already; it begins to sting.
Tomorrow she will be all over patches, red and white; itching--there
is nothing to describe the itching. It is beyond words. Next day her
face will begin to swell, and in two days more--the School Birthday,
my dear--she will be like nothing human, a mere shapeless lump of
pain and horror. She will not sleep by night or rest by day. She