eks flushing, "if you will let me leave my papers here a few
minutes until I can run home with them. But you've brought so many--and
they're in a nice pot, too--I'm afraid I haven't money enough to pay for
them."

"Five cents was the price agreed on yesterday," said the good-natured
gardener, "and I always stick to a bargain. And if there's more than you
expected, all the better for you--some of 'em'll be sure to thrive
anyhow. As for the pot, you're welcome to that. A flower-pot more or
less won't make me or break me."

The boy threw down his bundle, took the daisies with another "thank
you," and hurried away as fast as his poor foot would let him to an old,
queer-looking wooden house near the market, where, hugging his treasure
closely to his breast, he mounted the shaky stairs until he reached the
garret. Pushing open a door here, he entered a neat little room with
only one window in it, but that a dormer facing the south. The floor of
this room was bare, with the exception of two or three round rag mats,
and the walls were decorated in the oddest manner with pictures cut from
old papers and magazines, bits of colored glass, strips of glittering
tin twisted into grotesque shapes, and red and green motto-papers
fashioned into some semblance of flowers.

On a bed near the window lay a little pale-faced, brown-haired girl,
with wistful gray eyes, and a smile like sunshine breaking through a
cloud. In her hands she held a pair of knitting-needles, with which she
was knitting with marvellous quickness some coarse thread into wide,
strong lace. Beside the bed stood a small table, holding a box of
water-colors, a camel's-hair brush or two, a lead-pencil, a cup filled
with water, and a piece of paper on which was a rude attempt at a
painting of a bunch of daisies.

"See what I've brought you, Phemie!" cried her brother, joyfully.
"To-day's your birthday: thirteen years old--almost as old as I am. Bet
you thought I'd forgotten it; but I didn't, dearie; no, indeed."

"Daisies! daisies!" cried the girl, with a sweet glad laugh, dropping
her work, and holding out her pretty slender hands. "Oh, brother--dear,
good, _darling_ brother--will they live and grow?"

"The gardener says they will, and he ought to know," answered her
brother. "And now you needn't be aching your poor little head any more
trying to think exactly how they look, for you can study them all day
long. But, good gracious! I must go and sell my papers, or we