was the same one I've seen ever since I've been in the city, and that
you've seen for years before my arrival."

Mr. Winton still turned the basket.

"I've bought their stuff for years, because neither Leslie nor her mother
ever would tolerate fat carnations and overgrown roses so long as I could
find a scrap of arbutus, a violet or a wake-robin from the woods. We've
often motored up and penetrated the swamp I fancy these came from, for
some distance, but later in the season; it's so very boggy now. Aren't
these rather wonderful?" He turned to his daughter.

"Perfectly, Daddy," she said. "Perfectly!"

"But I don't mean for the Creator," explained Mr. Winton. "I am accustomed
to His miracles. Every day I see a number of them. I mean for the squaw."

"I'd have to know the squaw and understand her viewpoint," said Leslie.

"She had it in her tightly clenched fist," laughed Douglas. "One, I'm
sure; anyway, not over two."

"That hasn't a thing to do with the _art_ with which she made the basket
and filled it with just three perfect plants," said Leslie.

"You think there is real art in her anatomy?" queried Mr. Winton.

"Bear witness, O you treasures of gold!" cried Leslie, waving toward the
basket.