choicest flowers the little town
afforded, and arranging them into a most tasteful bouquet, sent them in
to Richard, vaguely hoping that at least in the cluster of double pinks,
which had been Richard's favorite, there might be hidden some mesmeric
power or psychological influence which should speak to the sick man of
the wayward Ethie who had troubled him so much.

Richard was sitting up in bed when Mary brought the bouquet, saying,
Miss Bigelow sent it, thinking it might cheer him a bit. Should she put
it in the tumbler near Miss Owens'?

Miss Owens had sent a pretty vase with hers, but Ethie's was simply tied
with a bit of ribbon she had worn about her neck. And Richard took it
in his hand, an exclamation escaping him as he saw and smelled the
fragrant pinks, whose perfume carried him first to Olney and Andy's
weedy beds in the front yard, and then to Chicopee, where in Aunt
Barbara's pretty garden, a large plant of them had been growing when he
went after his bride. A high wind had blown them down upon the walk, and
he had come upon Ethie one day trying to tie them up. He had plucked a
few, he remembered, telling Ethie they were his favorites for perfume,
while the red peony was his favorite for beauty. There had been a
comical gleam in her brown eyes which he now knew was born of contempt
for his taste with regard to flowers. Red peonies were not the rarest of
blossoms--Melinda had taught him that when he suggested having them in
his conservatory; but surely no one could object to these waxen,
feathery pinks, whose odor was so delicious. Miss Bigelow liked them,
else she had never sent them to him. And he kept the bouquet in his
hand, admiring its arrangement, inhaling the sweet perfume of the
delicate pinks and heliotrope, and speculating upon the kind of person
Miss Bigelow must be to have thought so much of him. He could account
for Miss Owens' gift--the hot-house blossoms, which had not moved him
one-half so much as did this bunch of pinks. She had known him
before--had met him in Washington; he had been polite to her on one or
two occasions, and it was natural that she should wish to be civil, at
least while he was sick. But the lady in No. 101--the Miss Bigelow for
whom he had discarded his boots and trodden on tiptoe half the time
since his arrival--why she should care for him he could not guess; and
finally deciding that it was a part of Clifton, where everybody was so
kind, he put the bouquet in the tumb