$2 
THE LAMES' FLORAL CABINET. 
cherish these little flowers for me, and on that day put 
a blossom on my father's grave?” 
Her gentle bosom fluttered with a sob or two, and a 
big tear fell on the painted pot and its white bloom. 
*‘Oh. Paul, don't speak so solemnly! You know I 
will cherish the Violets, and you may be sure,” she 
added in a lower, different tone, “ that I will not forget 
to reverence your father's grave for you. This pretty 
pot shall adorn it all Easter-day, and your mother shall 
have a cluster of my white beauties to wear. But all 
the other days in the year, Paul, this pot and plant is 
mine—all mine ! ” 
His heart grew hot, ho lost his head, and whispered 
hurriedly, “Violet, Violet, give me one little kiss, to 
keep me strong and good all the years I must be gone ! ” 
The girl's eyes opened widely at the request, or at his 
agitation. As a baby she had patted and caressed, or 
struck her loyal little slave just as the baby impulse had 
moved her ; but she had seldom kissed him, or thought 
of it, since being a grown girl. 
She looked at him. He was not a handsome fellow, 
but he was “her Paid,” and—and wondering at the 
look and light in his face, half vexed by the color 
coming in her own, she very gravely complied with his 
request. At that moment Mrs. Esterton entered the 
room, and decided it was well Paul Morgan was going 
away. Violet’s embarrassment vanished at once, and 
she brought forth the pot of Violets and told her 
mother the bargain made with him , while Paul went on 
his lonesome way with a glad heart as he cherished the 
memory of that caress. 
Three years of hard, driving study and work, and 
Paul was broken down. He came home quietly one 
Summer day to stay and rest. 
He had carried on an irregular correspondence with 
his little woodland waif, and been duly informed by 
his mother when the girl had broken with Mrs. Esterton 
and sought refuge with Mrs. Morgan. 
Mrs. Esterton, as she grew older, had persuaded her¬ 
self that she could dispose of Violet as she pleased 
after having given the girl utmost freedom all her 
years. She found her error. The girl loudly declared 
she would never marry Mr. Huntley, nor any other 
man, indeed, she added, unless she met one she admired 
more than any she had yet seen. The result, after a long, 
argumentative battle, was, that Miss Violet went to 
teaching the village school and lived with Mrs. Morgan. 
But Paul was hardly prepared to find what a magnifi¬ 
cent woman his wild-wood flower had become. He 
thought a prince might have been proud to many such 
a wo man . 
She met him with frank, candid friendship; coolly 
explained her position at home, as she yet termed Mrs. 
Esterton’s fine house. 
After a rather long visit, he returned to his city 
labors, knowing as well as though he had gone through 
all his life that there was but one woman in all the 
world for him, and that she could never be for him, 
for Violet Esterton was so far beyond him and above 
him, that he would never subject himself to the agony, 
nor her to the pain, of refusing him. She might, in 
deed, know his heart; he half thought she had already 
read it; but never would he utter a word. He prayed 
that she might he restored soon to her wealthy happy 
home and then, poor fellow, humbly asked help to wade 
through the remainder of his years. 
And, ere long, Mrs. Esterton, feeling the need of the 
comforting care of her headstrong child, sent for her, 
and after her death, Violet found that the beautiful 
home had been bequeathed to her, and she was again 
surrounded with wealth, refinement, and beauty. 
Lovers she had in plenty, but she was chill to all ns the 
cool snows that cherished through the winter the 
Violets in the old wooded dell. 
Paul Morgan had become celebrated as preacher and 
painter, and after years of study, had come again unto 
the little old country-home where he had spent his boy¬ 
hood. Fortune had smiled upon him kindly. 
He had been all over the new world and the old; he 
was a well-known writer and divine, and fame had 
followed his travels. A fine, kind-looking man, he was 
never handsome. 
It was Easter again, and he was to assist in the ser¬ 
vices of the church. He said it was the proudest hour 
of his life, when he. who had been a barefooted little 
lad of the village, was deemed worthy to lead his 
townspeople in the services of the holy worship. 
I cannot begin to tell how touching and beautiful 
were the remarks he made, llis playmates had grown 
to sturdy, earnest men and women, and sat before him 
filled with admiration and affection for one who had so 
far outstripped them in the race of life. 
Tire speaker's eyes filled with tears as he looked upon 
two women seated near him. One. an old lady, over 
whose wrinkled, smiling face, a perfect April shower 
was constantly playing, smiles and tears, tears and 
smiles. And on the bosom of her black silk gown was 
pinned a bunch of sweet white Violets. Their odor 
floated up to the man at the altar, and he knew the 
other younger woman had remembered all these years 
her promise to the awkward country youth. 
That other woman was pale, and grave, and quiet; 
yet, her eyes were clear and candid as on the day when 
she kissed him farewell. 
Now, she was a woman grown—an angel, the country 
folk all thought her. 
Very glad was she to behold her old comrade, her 
knight of childish days, standing there as the medium 
between herself and heaven. 
After church sendees, mother and son were to take 
dinner with her, in her grand home. Mrs. Morgan, in¬ 
deed, spent most of her days there—but Paul, that was 
the treat, to entertain one who so seldom came. 
Once again, after ten long years, Paul Morgan stood 
by the window where Violet, now his fair hostess, had 
given him that good-by kiss, and he glanced at Miss 
Esterton, quickly, wondering if she remembered. But 
she was gently fluttering about the old lady, and looked 
so calm and unconcerned, he could not fancy any senti¬ 
ment had ever stirred her. 
The winter had been very mild. Indeed, spring had 
seemed to reign all along, and a velvety mantle of 
green was everywhere. 
The purply fringes of the thistles were thrown on 
the golden sun-lit air; the Blue-bells nodded on their 
slender stems. A beautiful cross of blue Violets had 
adorned the altar that morning; but notliing touched 
the stranger-at-liome like the knot of white flowers on 
the dear mother’s breast. 
Along the old-fashioned walk to the gate, the gaily- 
painted Flag-Lilies were blooming, and on the green 
turf he spifed the plentiful gold of Dandelions and But- 
