se quarrel and heart-burnings
among a few distant relatives in another State, but there was absolutely
no record of why he had with his own hand torn aside the veil which hangs
between life and death.

When the others were not there I slipped into his room and reverently
unclosed his fingers and read the story written there--written over and
above those Russian violets which she had worn--for they were the same.
There they remained.

On the lid of his casket we placed a single wreath of Russian violets. But
all the strength and all the sweetness came from those dim violets faded,
but not dead, shut within the icy cold of his lifeless palm.

* * * * *

Miss Caddington and many of those who had known him went to the New Year
reception the next night and chattered and danced and danced and
chattered. They spoke lightly of the dead man; how much he was worth; the
cut of his dress suit; the quiet simplicity of his funeral; the refusal of
one minister to read the office for the dead, and the charity of
another--the one who did.

And then--they forgot him.

That New Year's night I sat in my study and thought of the woman who had
worn those Russian violets, and asked me if she were right in her ideas
about responsibility for human action.

Nowadays I frequently see her--she is always charming; sometimes
brilliant. Once I said to her:

"I have an answer for your question about responsibility."

"About responsibility?" she said, inquiringly; then quickly added: "Oh,
yes; that nonsense we talked coming home from the Bolton ball. Never mind
your answer, I am sure it is a good one, and perhaps clever, but it is
hardly worth while going back so far and for so little. Do you think so?
Are you going to the Athletic Club german next week? No? I am sorry, for,
as you are one of the few men who do not dance, I always miss a chat with
you."

Miss Caddington goes everywhere. Her gowns are exquisite and her flowers
are always beautiful and rare, because out of season. But neither in
season nor out of season does she ever wear a bunch--no matter how
small--of those Russian violets.

FIVE RED POPPIES

TO LADY VIOLET AGAIN

II

FIVE RED POPPIES

They hung their heads in a florist's window. The people of the town did
not buy them, for they wanted roses--yellow, white or crimson. But I, a
lover, passing that way, did covet them for a woman that I knew, and
straightway bought them.