398 
THE LADIES' FLORAL CABINET. 
to himself: How she will revel in the fairest and cost¬ 
liest of Roses, a dozen years or so, from now, when she 
sits gloriously at the opera! Oh, little maiden, may 
you ever keep the fresh heart of your childhood. 
“Do you like them, Midget?” he said, smiling upon 
her. 
“ Flowers are so comfor’ble,” she responded gravely, 
sniffing contentedly and rapturously at the lilac-blue 
blossoms. 
“And now, you shy Marjorie, don’t you want some 
candy?” 
She thought that this must mean going into a store, 
and consequent delay in their progress. 
“ No, sir; I want to go home,” with a little flutter of 
the sensitive throat. 
“ We’re going there as fast as we possibly can. Poke 
your hand down in my pocket, and see what you find.” 
‘ ‘ Mother says for me never to put my hand in grown 
up folk’s pockets,” responded the witch, with gravely 
severe and astonished tone. 
“Yes, that’s exactly right, of course,” said the much 
abashed young man, trying desperately to recover lost 
ground. “ But just feel outside of my pocket; what are 
those three lumps away down inside?” 
“ Candy,” said the interested maiden, demurely posi¬ 
tive. 
“ Now I’ll fish it up, and you shall eat it. Pretty 
little Celestine, a black-eyed beauty of about your size, 
put some candy down in my pocket, away last week, 
and I had forgotten all about it, or I should have given it 
away long ago. But it staid there for you, don’t you 
see ? ” 
“ How nice things happen,” said she a minute later, 
waving her Violets and munching her candy. 
Then they reached the corner of Edmonson Avenue, 
after many turns and angles, and saw the gray church 
walls in the block beyond. Then, suddenly, the end of 
the story came; for the moment that the frank and 
eager little maiden saw the street she recognized its 
peculiar aspect. She pulled her hand from the tall 
young man’s friendly clasp ; she looked swiftly into 
his face with the brightest smiles. 
“ Oh, I know where I am now,” she cried, “I know 
where I am now. You needn’t go any further with me, 
sir. Thank you, sir; good-by, sir; good-by.” 
She ran up the street, ascended the steps of an unas¬ 
suming cottage, and waved her hand in gay farewell, 
while Dean swung his hat with boyish enthusiasm, and 
took his way homeward, smiling as he went. So cheer¬ 
ful, indeed, was he, that tired and discouraged people 
took new heart of fate from his genial, hopeful glance. 
The touch of a child’s little hand still lingered in his; the 
tones of a child’s troubled appeal rang in his ears; the 
memory of her beautiful trustfulness lay deep in his 
soul. 
When Dean reached home he found in his ulster 
pocket a broken Violet, sole relic of the cluster that 
dainty little Alice had carried with her. He looked at 
it long, smiling and glad. “ This shall be my memento 
of you, wayward witch! ” he said, and wrote her name 
and the date on a slip of paper, and sealed the violet up in 
a small envelope, and put it among his treasures. For, 
somehow, flowers had accentuated all the emotions of 
his life; had come to him as messengers in times of 
deepest joy and of holiest sorrow, and of inexpressible 
disaster. Dark-stained English Wall-flowers from a 
Cypress-walled, Tamarisk-guarded grave near a peaceful 
sea; Pansies of purple and gold from a cottage garden 
in a mountain valley near flashing rivers and wild cata¬ 
racts, and gleaming, snow-clad mountains; White-lilies 
from a churchyard’s saintly quiet; a red rose bud from 
the trembling heart of some lost Atlantis dreamland— 
such blossoms as these were among Dean’s memorials, 
and in such company the frail Violet was received. 
And did he never see Alice again, never visit the 
charming child at her home? Ah, no ! for Dean was 
wise with many a hard-bought experience. Was it 
not better that they should always remember each 
other at their best ? Should auy future be allowed to 
mar the perfectness of the idyl ? Like Lamb, musing 
over his dream-child, Alice, Dean whispered softly, 
“ Better so, better so.” 
Charles Howard Shinn. 
AUNT HANNAH’S HEARING. 
I think it was Carlyle who said, “ Against stupidity 
the gods are powerless.” 
My husband is an Englishman, solid, practical, with 
a stock of common sense that is inexhaustible, and a 
fervent belief in the capability of a very stupid little 
wife. 
I am a Yankee girl, and fond of domestic life. That 
suits Caspar, and we have as cosy a little home as any 
two people in the world could desire to have who 
possess only a modest competency. But I may as well 
admit it—I am very ambitious, and was only too 
anxious about getting on in the world in a financial 
way—in fact, I wanted to be rich. 
Caspar and I had little encounters of wit occasionally, 
about what I called the English, and he the Yankee, of 
our habits and peculiarities, but as he had left London 
when a mere boy his Cockney dialect \\ as not very pro¬ 
nounced, at least, not more than mine was in the other 
direction, for if he said “beg pawdon,” when he fell 
over the cat, I said, “ I guess,” a dozen times a day, in¬ 
stead of the “ I presume so,” of Britain, and we man¬ 
aged to average our virtues and defects in a manner 
satisfactory to both. 
One morning Caspar referred to a letter he was read¬ 
ing and said: 
“Lottie, my Aunt Hannah is coming to visit us. I 
forgot to tell you, and she will be here to-day.” 
“How provoking,” I answered. 
Fate saved me from ill-nature. Caspar sup¬ 
posed I referred to the fact of her not telling me 
sooner. 
“ Yes, it quite slipped my mind, but I will order a 
joint at the butcher’s, and you can make a pudding or 
tart, and do try and amuse the old lady, for she is very 
low-spirited. She writes that she lost her hearing in 
the South, and is much dejected over it.” 
