ould stand upright.
There was also a hammock swung between two apple-trees in the orchard, a
balcony outside the bedroom window, and a shabby pony-cart, with a pony
who could really go. What could one wish for more?

Claire planned a lazy month, lying in that hammock, reading stories
about other people, and dreaming still more thrilling romances about
herself; driving the pony along country lanes, going out on to the
balcony in the early morning to breathe the scent of honeysuckle, and
sweetbriar, and lemon thyme, and all the dear, old-world treasures to be
found in the gardens of well-conducted farmhouses. She had a craving
for flowers in these hot summer days; not the meagre sixpennyworth which
adorned the saffron parlour, but a wealth of blossom, bought without
consideration of cost. And one day, with the unexpectedness of a fairy
gift, her wish was fulfilled.

It lay on the table when she returned from school--a long cardboard box
bearing the name of a celebrated West End florist, the word "fragile"
marked on the lid, and inside were roses, magnificent, half-opened roses
with the dew still on their leaves, the fat green stalks nearly a yard
in length--dozens of roses of every colour and shade, from the lustrous
whiteness of Frau Carl to the purple blackness of Prince Camille.
Claire gathered them in her arms, unconscious of the charming picture
which she made, in her simple blue lawn dress, with her glowing face
rising over the riot of colour, gathered them in a great handful, and
ran swiftly upstairs.

There was no card inside the box, no message of any kind, but her heart
knew no doubt as to the sender, and she dare not face the fire of Mary
Rhodes' cross-examination. In the days of daffodils she had treated
herself to a high green column of a vase, which was an ideal receptacle
for the present treasures. When it was filled there were still nearly
half the number waiting for a home, so these were plunged deep into the
ewer until the morrow, when they would be taken to Sophie in hospital.
The little room was filled with beauty and fragrance, and Claire knew
moments of unclouded happiness as she looked around.

Presently she extracted two roses from the rest, ran downstairs to
collect box, paper and string, and handed rubbish and roses together to
Lizzie at the top of the kitchen stairs. Lizzie received her share of
the treasures with dignity, cut off the giant stems, which she
considered straggly and out