me now."

The garden seemed very beautiful to me. For the first time in my life,
I think, I took a flower in my hands and examined it to see how it was
made. A great and new curiosity filled me. How beautiful the world
was, and all things in it; how short the time to find out all that
there was to be known about all those beautiful things! And what an
ignoble basis of ignorance I must start from if I was to "find out,"
and to "understand!" There filled me a sense of unworthiness and a
strong desire for self-improvement.

"I must learn the names of some of these things," I thought, and I
began to read the labels which stood among the flowers and shrubbery,
for in such matters my mother was very strict and particular: _Abeleia
grandiflora, Laurestinus, Olea fragrans, Ligustrum napalense, Rosa
watsoniana_---- Now really could that thing be a rose? It looked more
like a cross between a fern and an ostrich plume. I looked closer.
Each slender light green leaf was mottled with lighter green, a miracle
of exquisite tracing, and the thing was in bud, millions and millions
of buds no bigger than the eggs in a shad roe. Yes, it was a rose. I
looked at the drop of blood on the ball of my thumb, and thought what a
beautiful color it was, and how gladly, if need be, I would shed every
drop of it for Her.

Dark smoke began to pour from the kitchen chimney, and I knew that the
cook was down. Hilda must have seen me in the garden, for she was
setting a place for me at one end of the big dining-table. How fresh
and clean she always looked and how tidy. Almost you might have
thought that her hair was carved from some rich brown substance. It
was always as neat as the hair of a statue.

"Good morning, Hilda."

"Good morning, Mr. Archie."

"How about breakfast?"

"It will be ready directly."

"Wish you'd give me a long glass of Apollinaris with a lot of ice in
it."

"With pleasure."

I heard her pounding ice in the pantry and then the pop as the bottle
came open. She stood behind my chair while I drank. And somehow I got
the feeling that she was smiling. I turned my head quickly. She was
smiling, but tremulously, almost as if she was going to cry.

"What's the matter, Hilda--have I forgotten to brush the back of my
hair?"

"No, sir--it's----"

"It's _what_?"

"Nothing, sir--only----"

"Don't be silly---- Tell me."

She told me, and for a moment, so odd was her statement, I thought she
must have go