le.

"We are going to sacrifice all our roses, Timbs," said I, "for the sake
of a very gallant Englishman. It's about all we can do."

Of course I ought to have entered upon all this explanation when I
first came on the scene; but I took it for granted that Timbs knew of
the tragedy.

"Need we cut those blooms of the Rayon d'Or?" asked Timbs, alluding to
certain roses under conical paper shades which he had been breathlessly
tending for our local flower show. "We'll cut them first," said I.

Looking back through the correcting prism of time, I fancy this
slaughter of the innocents may have been foolishly sentimental. But I
had a great desire to lay all that I could by way of tribute of
consolation at Betty's feet, and this little sacrifice of all my roses
seemed as symbolical an expression of my feelings as anything that my
unimaginative brain could devise.

During the forenoon I superintended the packing of the baskets of roses
in Pawling the florist's cart, which I was successful in engaging for
the occasion,--neither wheelbarrow nor donkey carriage nor two-seater,
the only vehicles at my disposal, being adequate; and when I saw it
start for its destination, I wheeled myself, by way of discipline,
through my bereaved garden. It looked mighty desolate. But though all
the blooms had gone, there were a myriad buds which next week would
burst into happy flower. And the sacrifice seemed trivial, almost
ironical; for in Betty's heart there were no buds left.

After lunch I went to the hospital for the weekly committee meeting. To
my amazement the first person I met in the corridor was Betty--Betty,
white as wax, with black rings round unnaturally shining eyes. She
waited for me to wheel myself up to her. I said severely:

"What on earth are you doing here? Go home to bed at once."

She put her hand on the back of my chair and bent down.

"I'm better here. And so are the dear roses. Come and see them."

I followed her into one of the military wards on the ground floor, and
the place was a feast of roses. I had no idea so many could have come
from my little garden. And the ward upstairs, she told me, was
similarly beflowered. By the side of each man's bed stood bowl or vase,
and the tables and the window sills were bright with blooms. It was the
ward for serious cases--men with faces livid from gas-poisoning, men
with the accursed trench nephritis, men with faces swathed in bandages
hiding God knows what distortion