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rent sprigs, leaves or flowers, carefully among its pages and put them to dry. She loved every leaf of them. They were associated in her mind with all that pleasant interlude of Christmas: Pitt's coming, his kindness; their going after greens together, and dressing the house. The bright interlude was past; Pitt had gone back to college; and the little girl cherished the faded green things as something belonging to that good time which was gone. She would dry them carefully and keep them always, she thought. A day or two later, her father noticed that the vase was empty, and asked Esther what she had done with her flowers? 'They were withered, papa; they were spoilt; I could not keep them.' 'What did you do with them?' 'Papa, I thought I would try to dry them.' 'Yes, and what did you do with them?' 'Papa, I put them in that old, odd volume of the Encyclopaedia.' 'Bring it here and let me see.' Much wondering and a little discomfited, Esther obeyed. She brought the great book to the side of the sofa, and turned over the pages carefully, showing the dried and drying leaves. She had a great love to them; what did her father want with them? 'What do you propose to do with those things, when they are dry? They are staining the book.' 'It's an old book, papa; it is no harm, is it?' 'What are you going to do with them? Are they to remain here permanently?' 'Oh, no, sir; they are only put here to dry. I put a weight on the book. They will be dry soon.' 'And what then?' 'Then I will take them out, papa. It's an old book.' 'And what will you do with them?' 'I will keep them, sir.' 'What is the use of keeping the flowers after their beauty is gone? I do not think that is worth while.' '_Some_ of their beauty is gone,' said Esther, with a certain tenderness for the plants manifested in her manner,--'but I love them yet, papa.' 'That is not wise, my child. Why should you love a parcel of dry leaves? Love what is worthy to be loved. I think I would throw them all in the fire.' 'Oh, papa!' 'That's the best, my dear. They are only rubbish. I object to the hoarding of rubbish. It is a poor habit.' The colonel turned his attention again to his book, and perhaps did not even remark how Esther sat with a disconsolate face on the floor, looking at her condemned treasures. He would not have understood it if he had seen. In his nature there was no key to the feeling which now was driving the
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