THE LADIES' FLORAL CABINET. 
397 
The young man was tall and slender, and a brown 
ulster came nearly to his heels. About him bright 
Christmas berries and evergreens were piled in great 
heaps, and the gaily decorated stalls bore kindly evi¬ 
dence that the blessed season of mirth and jubilee was 
at hand. Portly and jolly merchants, on tours of in¬ 
spection, thumped the fat turkeys and chaffed the boys 
who kept the fruit stand, and declared that it was no 
market at all, and ended by ordering half a cart load of 
eatables and greenery. Little children came along 
beaming, with their one cent for a stick of taffy, their 
two cents for a banana, and off with seemingly the 
world in their clasp. Everywhere laughter, everywhere 
happiness—except in the face of this tall young man, 
Dean by name, who looked sad and tired, and troubled 
in spirit. Perhaps his»thoughts wSre miles away, with 
those he loved most; perhaps, and this is most likely, 
he was brooding in silence over some deep and lonely 
and unspeakable grief, for upon those he met there fell 
a hush as of recognition and sympathy. Across all that 
noisy and merry market-place it was as if a sorrowful, 
suffering brother-mortal had passed, and men with 
their burdens stepped aside, and even the peanut lads 
forbore to urge their wares upon Dean, musing as be 
walked, lonely as Dante in the streets of Florence. Yet, 
as he passed the little flower stand, half way across the 
market, the black-robed widow, who had kept it since 
Gettysburg, led by an impulse she never could quite 
explain, picked up a cluster of Violets, and held them 
forth without a word, not that she wished to urge him 
to buy, but—would he not wish to see them? Hot¬ 
house Violets they were, large, pale, and fragrant; 
twelve flowers were in the cluster, bound up with their 
own peltate leaves, and twenty-five cents was the price 
at that season. 
The tall young man remembered Christmas Violets in 
a far off city, built upon the hills of a wind-swept 
peninsula, where five cents for a cluster as large as your 
two hands could hold was all they cost. He paused, and 
looked gravely down, seeing the plain pine table, the 
modest array of flowers upon it, the widow’s faded gar¬ 
ments and black shawl, the pale and elderly face, win¬ 
ning because of its serenity, the Violets faintly suffus¬ 
ing the wintry air with fragrance. He drew his hands 
from the deep pockets of his ulster, laid a silver quarter 
in the flower-woman’s palm, and took the Violets. 
“ So Violets still bloom in the world? I am glad you . 
had them for me,” lie said to the flower-seller, and 
thrust the bouquet deep down into his pocket as he 
went on, relapsing into the same meditative mood and 
troubled reverie. 
He reached the corner of the market place, where the 
streets cross. The sky was overcast, and gusts of 
wind began to sweep across the city, and a few large 
flakes of snow fell. Dean had again forgotten about 
his surroundings, he stood somewhat apart from the 
crowd, and looked far westward, toward the sinking 
sun, gazing past miles of brick, and blue hills, and low 
fringes of pines, sad-eyed, silent, earnest. 
A pair of little hands clutched his ulster fast, and 
pulled it violently. A child's clear voice rang in his 
ears, and drew his thoughts suddenly back to the needs 
and the duties of this everyday world. 
Yet, the voice was only an inarticulate cry. Looking 
down, he saw a bonnie little maiden by his side, pulling 
his ulster, and sobbing between her slow and troubled 
words. 
“Please, sir!—O, sir! I—don’t—know—where—I— 
am.” 
Gently smiling down upon her, he put his hand over 
her’s with a strong, reassuring clasp. 
“ Never mind, little one, you are all right now. And 
do you know where you would like to be?” 
“I want to go home,” said the winsome maiden, de¬ 
cisively, lifting her tear-stained face, and shyly, yet 
willingly, transferring her grasp from the ulster to the 
friendly hand. 
“But tell me, where is home, bright-eyed little Miss 
Blue-Hood? We can find the way, I am sure.” 
“ It’s on Edmonson Avenue,” the child replied. “ We 
haven’t lived there very long, and so I got lost.” The 
graceful mouth began to quiver at the recollection. 
“ O ! that is real easy to find. Come along, Christmas- 
berry Lady, and see if we don’t have a surprise party.” 
They went along the street, side by side, and almost 
gleefully, for the child had forgotten her dread, and 
Dean found pleasure in her merry talk. “ What a con¬ 
fiding little puss it is,” he thought. 
“So Alice is your name?” he said. “Now I think 
that Nemophila would have suited you better, or Pan¬ 
siest that is too long. But what is your pet name? 
What does your father call you?” 
“ Sometimes he says ‘ Minx ’ and now and then ‘ Blos¬ 
som.’ Mother says I am an awful case, and I ’spose 
I am.” 
She informed him, by degrees, that her whole name 
was Alice Merritt, that she was six years old, and was. 
going to be sent to school pretty soon; but her mother 
had taught her at home. She explained that she had 
gone to play with a neighbor’s little girl on another 
street, and had followed a company of soldiers “ to see 
them march,” and then, taking the wrong turn, had 
found herself in a strange region. Then, as she said : 
“I just walked, and walked, and walked, ever’n,. 
ever’n, so far. And people kept goin’, and goin’ by, 
and never once a’-looking at me. And I said: ‘ Oh, dear 
me, whatever shall I do! ’ And then I spoke to a big 
man, but maybe he didn’t know what I wanted, for he 
walked right along. Then I didn’t know what in the 
world to do. And I thought maybe God knew, so I 
said : ‘ Dear God, please don't let me stay lost; ’ and I 
tried to think what little girls did when they didn’t 
know the way. Then I walked some more, and I got 
dreadful tired.” 
She looked up in Dean’s face with bright and trustful 
eyes. “ Then I saw you coming, and I looked all over 
you ; and I ran and caught hold of your coat. It just 
seemed as if I couldn’t bear to be lost any longer.” 
The child’s simple words touched Dean’s heart deeply: 
“Children, and birds, and flowers,” he said, “What 
else in all the world is it worth while to trust?” 
Suddenly he remembered the long-forgotten cluster 
of Violets, and drew them forth from the deep pocket. 
“Here, Lily-Maiden, these are posies for you,” he 
said, holding them out for the tiny brown hands to 
clasp. 
The child’s face shone with such delight that the 
stoutest old misanthrope would have melted at the 
vision, She was a born flower-lover, that was evident 
and Dean, looking down in the soft, clear eyes, thought, 
