they
classify into families. There are other less comprehensive resemblances
in the families. These are grouped into genera and the genera are
divided into species and these again into varieties, and a name is given
to each."

Elise in her way was a genius. She recognised the impossible. Miss
Hartwell's answers were impossible to her.

"Oh, is that all?" she asked, sarcastically. "Have you found the names
of these?" Again she pointed to the torn flowers.

Miss Hartwell divided her prey into groups.

"These are the Ranunculaceae family. This is the Aquilegia Caerulea. This
is the Delphinium Occidentale. This belongs to the Polemoniaceae family,
and is the Phlox Caespitosa. These are Compositae. They are a difficult
group to name." Miss Hartwell was indulging in mixed emotions. Mingled
with a satisfaction in reviewing her erudition was a quiet revenge
heightened by the unconsciousness of her object.

"You don't love flowers." There was no indecision in the statement.

"Why, yes, I certainly do."

"No; you don't, or you wouldn't tear them to pieces."

"Don't you ever pick flowers?"

"Yes; but I love them. I take them to my room, and they talk to me. They
do, too!" Elise flashed an answer to a questioning look of Miss
Hartwell, and then went on, "I don't tear them to pieces and throw them
away. Not even to find out those hideous names you called them. They
don't belong to them. You don't love them, and you needn't pretend you
do." Elise's cheeks were flushed. Miss Hartwell was bewildered in mind.
She acknowledged it to herself. Elise was teaching her a lesson that she
had never heard of before, much less learned. Then came elusive
suggestions, vaguely defined, of the two-fold aspect of nature. She
looked regretfully at the evidences of her curiosity. She had not yet
gone far enough along the new path to take accurate notes of her
emotions; but she had an undefined sense of her inferiority, a sense of
wrong-doing.

"I am very sorry I hurt you. I did not mean to."

Elise gave a quick look of interrogation. The look showed sincerity. Her
voice softened.

"You didn't hurt me; you made me mad. I can help myself. They can't."

Miss Hartwell had left her sketch-book unclosed. An errant breath of
wind was fluttering the pages.

"What is that?" Elise asked. "Another kind of book to make you tear up
flowers?" Her voice was hard again.

Miss Hartwell took up the open book.

"Perhaps you would like to see these. T