"I know it was beautiful, but I'm sure I should have selected the gold had
I been there. Oh I wonder if the woman who has the moccasins will give
them a drink to-night! And will she try to preserve their roots?"

"She will not!" said Douglas emphatically.

"How can you possibly know?" queried the girl.

"I saw the man who ordered them," laughed Douglas.

"Oh!" cried Leslie, comprehendingly.

"I'd stake all I'm worth the moccasins are drooping against a lavender
dress; the roots are in the garbage can, while the cook or maid has the
basket," he said.

"Douglas, how can you!" exclaimed Leslie.

"I couldn't! Positively couldn't! Mine are here!"

The slow colour crept into her cheek. "I'll make those roots bloom next
spring; you shall see them in perfection," she promised.

"That would be wonderful!" he exclaimed warmly.

"Tell me, were there yet others?" she asked hastily.

"Only these," he said. "But there was something else. I came near losing
them. While I debated, or rather while I possessed these, and worshipped
the others, there was a gutter row that almost made me lose yours."