orrows to Mat now, just as he used to carry them to his
mother.

The girl listened intently, the spots on her face growing deeper and
wider. She looked at the bluebells wistfully, but would not touch them.
Arch offered her a spray. She shook her head sadly.

"No," she said, "they are not for me. Keep them, Arch. Some time, I
think, you will be rich and happy, and have all the flowers and beautiful
things you wish."

"If I ever am, Mat, you shall be my queen, and dress in gold and silver!"
answered the boy, warmly; "and never do any more heavy work to make your
hands hard."

"You are very good, Arch," she said. "I thank you, but I shall not be
there, you know. I think I am going away--going where I shall see my
mother, and your mother, too. Arch, and where all the world will be full
of flowers! Then I shall think of you, Arch, and wish I could send you
some."

"Mat, dear Mat! don't talk so strangely!" said the boy, clasping her hot
hands in his. "You must not think of going away! What _should_ I do
without you?"

She smiled, and touched her lips to his hand, which had stolen under her
head, and lay so near her cheek.

"You would forget me, Arch. I mean after a time, and I should want you
to. But I love you better than anything else in all the world! And it is
better that I should die. A great deal better! Last night I dreamed it
was. Your mother came and told me so. Do you know how jealous I have been
of that Margie Harrison? I have watched you closely. I have seen you kiss
a dead rose that I knew she gave you. And I longed to see her so much,
that I have waited around the splendid house where she lives, and seen
her time and again come out to ride, with the beautiful dresses, and the
white feather in her hat, and the wild roses on her cheeks. And my heart
ached with such a hot, bitter pain! But it's all over now, Arch: I am not
jealous now. I love her and you--both of you together. If I do go away,
I want you to think kindly of me, and--and--good-night, Arch--dear Arch.
I am so tired."

He gathered her head to his bosom, and kissed her lips.

Poor little Mat! In the morning, when Arch came down, she had indeed gone
away--drifted out with the tide and with the silent night.

After Mat's death the home at Grandma Rugg's became insupportable to
Arch. He could not remain there. The old woman was crosser than ever,
and, though he gave her every penny of his earnings, she was not
satisfied.

So Arch took lodgin