The Mignonette House 



"BY MARION McARTHUR 



THE clail}- ride on the electric car from 

 our suburban home to my school 

 in the citj took me past a number 

 "of residences. Most of these houses were 

 commonplace enough, but several were 

 remarkable. Some of these I had named. 

 There was The House of the Beautiful 

 Bab}', The Bookworm^s House, The House 

 with the Door-Knocker, and The Mig- 

 nonette House. 



The last named interested me particu- 

 larly. There could not grow more beau- 

 tiful mignonette, and I never missed a 

 sight of the front bow window filled with 

 boxes of its green loveliness. In almost 

 every window that we passed there were 

 plants — principally scarlet geraniums, 

 conventional and monotonous, although 

 one window had a choice collection of 

 primroses and another always had a lily 

 of some variety in it. The person who 

 had selected mignonette had individuality, 

 .a rare character, an artist's soul, I decided. 

 How I longed for the story of that house ! 



It came to me, bit by bit, the first of it 

 being a glimpse of a little, gray-haired 

 woman watering the boxes — a dear little 

 old maid, of course, a typical Miss Mattie. 

 Immediately my imagination was busy 

 weaving a romance which I enjoyed for 

 some time, until it was torn to threads by 

 .a remark I chanced to hear. "Mignon- 

 ette still," a woman exclaimed, disgust- 

 edly to her companion, as we were passing 

 the house. "Isn't Mrs. Murrey odd ? N"ow, 

 if that was my window, Fd have some- 

 thing that would make a show, and not 

 just those green plants." 



The days were growing shorter, and I 

 -thought with regret that soon one glimpse 

 in the morning of my favorite window 

 would be all I could have for many weeks. 

 So what a glad surprise it was one early 

 -evening of a cloudy day when I saw the 

 -window brightly lighted, showing its 



beauty almost as well as in the day. And 

 thus it was for many nights. 



There was always a profusion of blos- 

 soms, so it was evident that there was a 

 rotation of boxes. The plants were started 

 in other windows, and then brought for- 

 ward when ready to bloom. The boxes, 

 too, were evenly filled, no blossoms seemed 

 ever to be picked, until one day I saw they 

 were almost bare, only a thin fringe next 

 to the window remaining. What could 

 have happened? The next evening I was 

 watching eagerly to see if fresh boxes had 

 been placed in the window, when the car 

 stopped near the Mignonette House and 

 a young man came aboard. The con- 

 ductor's hand was on the bell-rope, when 

 we heard a woman crying, "Stop ! "Wait a 

 minute !" and Mrs. Murrey came running 

 through the snow with a white parcel. 

 She came up almost breathless, handed the 

 parcel to the young man, and said, "For- 

 give my selfishness. Here are the flowers," 

 and then, more to herself, "I haven't quite 

 learned my lesson." She turned away, and 

 the .car started before he could thank her. 



He came in and took the half seat with 

 me — the only vacant one. He was one of 

 those friendly persons who must talk to 

 some one. Unpinning one end of the 

 parcel, there was set free the most delight- 

 ful perfume, and we saw a beautiful mass 

 of mignonette. 



"I feel like a thief," he said, "but what 

 could I do? This is mother's favorite 

 flower. It's her birthday, and she isn't 

 very well," a troubled look came into his 

 face, "so I thought I would take her some, j 

 I believe I visited every florist in the city, 

 but they all said they had none. Then 

 I remembered seeing a window full of it 

 as I passed through here, so I determined 

 to try there for a little. Do you suppose 

 that the offer I made at last of a dollar a 

 blossom moved that woman? Xot a bit. 



