hould be quite alone.
For no reason that she could formulate, the thought of even her mother
setting eyes on them together seemed a threat of disgrace. She wished
that they could be standing side by side at the fire in that five
minutes when it is sheer extravagance to light the gas but so dark that
one may stare as one cannot by day, so that she might look at what the
driving flamelight showed of his black, sea-roughened magnificence. At
her perfect memory of him she felt a rush of exhilaration which left her
confused and glad and benevolent.

"Mother, dear," she said, for Mrs. Melville had come back with the
fish-pie, and was bidding her with an offended briskness to sit forward
and eat her meal while it was hot, "they're the loveliest things. I
can't think what for I was so cross."

"Neither can I. There's so little bonny comes our way that I do think we
might be grateful when we get a treat."

"I'm sorry. I can't think what came over me."

"Never mind. But, you know, you're sometimes terribly like your father.
You must fight against it."

They sat down to supper, looking up from their food at the roses.

"Mother, the gas is awful bad for them. Carbonic acid is just murderous
to flowers."

"I was thinking that myself. It was well known that gas was bad for
flowers even when I was young, though we didn't talk about carbonic
acid. But if you don't see them by gaslight you'll never see them, for
it's dark by five. They must fall faster than they would have done."

"Och, no! I'd rather you had the pleasure of them by day, and let the
poor things last. I must content myself with a look at them at
breakfast."

"Nonsense! They're your flowers, lassie. But do you not think it would
do if we brought in the two candles and turned out the gas? It'll be a
bit dark, but it isn't as if there were many bones in the fish-pie."

And that is what they did. It was a satisfactory arrangement, for then
there was a bright soft light on the red and white petals, and a drapery
of darkness about the mean walls of the room, and a thickening of the
atmosphere which hid the archness on the older woman's face, so that the
girl dreamed untormented and without knowing that she dreamed.

"Ah, well!" sighed Mrs. Melville after a silence, with that air of irony
which she was careful to impart to her sad remarks, as if she wanted to
remove any impression that she respected the fate that had assailed her.
"I don't know how many years it is