ile. It
might even mean giving up the tiresome, profitless shop, and going to
live in a snug little house of their own, where there should be a porch
for Jim in pleasant weather and, for cold days, a sitting-room with two
windows instead of one where she could work at her flower-books, while
they planned what they should do when Jim got well. She sat over her
pressed flowers, which she handled with much skill, while she revolved
these thoughts in her mind. She was busy with her columbines, a large
folio of which lay on a table near by. At her left hand was a pile of
square cards with scalloped edges, upon which the columbines were to be
affixed; at her right was a small glass window-pane smeared with what
she called "stickum." As she deftly lifted the flowers, one by one,
without ever breaking a fragile petal, she laid each first upon the
"stickum"-covered square of glass and then upon the Bristol-board. She
was skilful in always placing the flower precisely where it was to
remain upon the page, so that the white surface was kept unstained. Then
she further secured each brittle stem with a tiny strip of paper pasted
across the end. She lifted a card and surveyed her work critically,
thinking the while, not of the wonderful golden and purple flower,
holding its beautiful head with as stately a grace as if it were still
swaying upon its stem, but of the great "mining-boom" that was upon the
town, and of the chances of a fortune.

Half-an-hour had passed since the shop-bell had last tinkled, and
Marietta was beginning to think of making Jim a flying call, when she
heard his cane rapturously banging the floor above. This was the signal
for her to look out into the street, which she promptly did, and,
behold! the four-in-hand had stopped before the door, a groom was
standing at the leaders' heads, and the master of this splendid equipage
was just coming in, his figure looming large and imposing in the
doorway.

"Good morning, Mrs. Jim," he called before he was well inside the shop.
"I want one of your ten-dollar flower-books."

Quite unmoved by the lavishness of her customer, Marietta rose in her
stately way, and drew forth several specimens of her most expensive
flower-book. Dayton examined them with an attempt to be discriminating,
remarking that the book was for some California friends of his wife who
were inclined to be "snifty" about Colorado flowers.

"That's the best of the lot," Marietta volunteered, singling out