THE LADIES' FLORAL CABINET. 
161 
sunshine can kiss each other ? ’ Sol washed the window 
for the first time in months. Then, when the green 
buds began to show their white tips, and the white tips 
grew bigger day by day, it was: ‘Mother, they are so 
fresh and white, and they make everything else look so 
dirty; can’t you make the rest white, too, mother?’ 
So then the floor and the walls must be washed, and the 
furniture dusted. He can’t bear to see a speck of dust 
now—says it makes the flower feel homesick. Then, 
when the blossoms opened out at last, it was: ‘Mother, 
I can’t smell my flower for the smell of yesterday’s 
dinner; won’t you open the window wide and let 
in the fresh air, so the flower-smell needn’t be afraid 
to come out?’ He never said a word about me, bless 
his heart! But how can a body live in a clean room 
and stay dirty themselves? So I brushed my hair 
and tidied myself, and we feel like'folks again, Jamie 
and me.” 
“That isn’t all, though, Miss Montrose. All the 
women and children in the house, they want to see the 
flower. Then they go back and their own rooms look 
so dingy and dirty to them. Miss Montrose, I believe 
there has been more cleaning and scrubbing in this 
house in the last two weeks than there was in two years 
before. It’s a regular missionary flower, that’s what it 
is, if it’s true what I’ve heard say that ‘ cleanliness 
is next to godliness.’ ” 
“ And, Miss Montrose,” adds Mrs. Morrow, after a long 
pause and with bashful hesitation, “that isn’t all— 
not quite all, but I don’t know as I dare tell you the 
rest,” 
“You need not be afraid,” says Miss Montrose, en¬ 
couragingly, but still the woman hesitates. 
“It was the doctor,” she says, at last, “the young 
doctor from the dispensary who took care of Jamie 
while he was sick. He came yesterday to see how he 
was getting on, and he saw the change in the room at 
once. I told him about the flower, and he took it up 
and looked at it. Then he seemed surprised and felt 
underneath the vase. Then he lifted it up carefully and 
looked under it, and then he turned all sorts of colors 
and asked: 1 Who gave you this vase?’ So then I told 
him it was Miss Montrose, and he went first red, and 
then white, and asked where did you live. I did not 
know, but Jamie up and told him. That’s all, Miss 
Montrose; only the next day he came back with a vase 
and flower the very model of the one you sent and 
asked Jamie would he change. Jamie did not want to, 
but he did, and I thought you 'ought to know about it 
all.” 
Miss Montrose has turned white and red, too, at the 
story, for she knows what initials were scratched under 
the glass three years ago. 
“ What is the doctor’s name?” she asks, with an effort 
at self-control. 
“I don’t know,’’says Mrs. Morrow. “ He is the young 
doctor from the dispensary—that is all I know. Ought 
I to have asked?” 
“ O no; it is of no consequence,” says Miss Montrose, 
but her brain is in a whirl, and she feels that she must 
get away at once. 
Can it be? Is it possible? she thinks, as she walks 
hastily homeward. Can the grave give up its dead? 
For dead Hugh Hylton has been to her for these three 
years past. But if not he, who can it be? Who else 
knows the secret of the initials which his hand cut upon 
the Hyacinth glass with his own diamond ring? A. B. 
M. and H. G. H., how well she remembers the day when 
he scratched them, and she watched him with shy, 
dimpling blushes, and happy conscious smiles! Well, 
she will know soon now, for Hugh Hylton, if, indeed, 
it be he, knows where to find her at last. 
Slowly she goes up the stairs, pondering as she goes. 
She enters her room, but as she does so she starts. For 
there on the rustic bracket, stands a white Hyacinth in 
a ruby vase, all shining and glorified in the sunlight 
which pours through the pane. Quickly her fingers 
unfasten the note which is tied to it, quickly her eyes 
run over the lines in the handwriting she knows so 
well. 
“ It is only an hour - since I learned that Nina Montrose 
is Nina Montrose still, and where I can find her. How 
could you treat me so, my little Nina? I have sought 
you in vain since the day i landed, brought back by my 
anxiety at your silence, which I could no longer bear. 
Yet I dare not seek you until I know whether you are 
the Nina of the old time or not. Let this flower plead for 
me in memory of the old days when it was dear to us both. 
If things are as they were with you, if your heart is not 
changed, send me one word and I will come. If not, 
send me back the Hyacinth, and I shall know what it 
means.” 
Could Hugh Hylton, waiting for his answer, but see 
the swimming eyes that read his note, the tremulous, 
happy lips to which it is pressed, he would not doubt 
whether the next hour would bring him back the Hya¬ 
cinth with all its sweets turned to gall, or the “one 
word ” for which he has pleaded. There is no doubt in 
Nina’s mind which it shall be, as she seats herself at 
her little desk to write the note which brings him 
to her. 
There is a quiet wedding a few months later in the 
little church which Nina has been in the habit of attend¬ 
ing, a very quiet wedding, but singular in some respects; 
for among the very few invited guests present, two in 
the most conspicuous seats hardly seem from their ap¬ 
pearance to have a right there. They are a pale, deli¬ 
cate woman, and a slender, pallid boy, poorly dressed, 
but with faces that shine with quiet satisfaction. As 
the notes of the wedding-march swell out upon the air, 
and the little procession passes up the dim aisle, the boy 
catches his mother’s arm and points to the white-robed 
bride. “See, mother, see!” lie whispers, eagerly, “she 
has done what she said she would. Her wreath and 
bouquet are all of white Hyacinths.” 
You may search the alley back of Flagler Street in 
vain for Jamie and his mother now. They vanished 
from there long ago. Mrs. Morrow finds that the deli¬ 
cate embroidery which she learned in her youth, pays 
better than slop-shirts, and her work is too well known 
to let her lack customers. They have pleasant airy 
rooms, just far enough out of town to combine the 
advantages of cheapness and fresh air, but near enough 
for Jamie to reach his work every day. For, among 
his patients, Dr. Hylton found a florist who was 
looking for a boy whom he could bring up to his 
business, and Jamie is that boy. Does any one say that 
gratitude is a virtue which has vanished from the world? 
You would not hold that opinion long, could you see 
Mrs. Hylton’s plants which Jamie has taken under his 
care. 
Does any one wonder, that of all her plants, none are 
so carefully watched and tended as the White Hya¬ 
cinths? Helen F. More. 
