'Heliotrope, finally,' he said.

She brushed it lightly away with a half shudder.

'Not that. I don't like heliotrope. Its perfume is heart-breaking,
hopeless. It belongs in coffins, about still, dead faces. If it had a
voice, we should hear continual moans. It would be no worse than this,
though.'

'You will wear the lilies then, unless the heliotrope scent clings to
them too,' he said, gathering up the obnoxious flowers.

'Yes, if it doesn't jar your ideal to see them worn against such a
stormy day dress. To me they are the perfection of summer. No _color_
could be more intense than this spotless whiteness. There!' Fastening
them, the brittle stems snapped, and the flowers fell at her feet. 'No
flowers for me to-day, of your choosing at least. Practically, lilies
have such an uncomfortable way of breaking short off.'

A broad, bright ribbon lay drawn through 'Charles Anchester' on the
table. She knotted it carelessly at her throat.

'That will do for the now; but, O my carnations, how your mission
failed!' hovering over them a minute.

'Then you are not satisfied with the New England mean of perfection, in
everything, mentally, morally, and meteorologically?' going back to the
weather again.

'Satisfied! I'd exchange this whole pale summer for one hour of broad,
torrid noonlight. Deep, far-off tropical skies, great fronds of tropical
foliage, drawing their sustenance from the slowest, richest juices of
nature, gorgeous depths of color blazing with the very heart of the sun,
deep, intoxicating odors poured from creamy white or flaming flower
chalices, and always the silver-sprayed wash of the blue sea. I remember
that of my home. It is months and months since I have seen a magnolia or
jasmine.'

Fate sent Miss Morris to the parlor just then, luckily enough, perhaps,
and the first dash of rain from the coming storm struck the windows
sharply. Miss Berkeley shivered; a gray shadow swept up over her face,
and absorbed all the gleam and unrest. She moved off with her book to a
window; shut herself out from the room, and into the storm, with a heavy
fall of curtains; and Nelly's voice rippled through a tripping, Venetian
barcarole.

It stormed all the next day, and when twilight came, it rained still
with desperation. A narrow sphere of light from the flame low down in
its alabaster shade held the piano, and through the warm scented gloom
that filled the rest of the parlor thrilled echoing chords. Moore,
coming