ithout speaking. It did not seem to occur to her to ask why he
had not mentioned her brother at their former interview. She was
evidently of an unsuspecting nature, or else all other impressions were
forgotten and absorbed in the one thought of her bereavement. After a
glance at her Putnam ventured to lay his roses reverently upon the
mound. She held in her hand a few wild-flowers just gathered. These she
kissed, and dropped them also on the grave. He understood the meaning of
her gesture and was deeply moved.

"Poor little, dull-colored things!" she said, looking down at them.

"They are a thousand times more beautiful than mine," he exclaimed
passionately. "I am ashamed of those heartless affairs: anybody can buy
them."

"Oh no: my brother was very fond of roses. Perhaps you remember his
taste for them?" she inquired innocently.

"I--I don't think he ever alluded to them. The atmosphere of the medical
college was not very aesthetic, you know."

"At first I used to bring green-house flowers," she continued, without
much heeding his answer, "but lately I haven't been able to afford them
except on Sundays. Sundays I bring white ones from the green-house."

She had seated herself in her wicker chair, and Putnam, after a moment's
hesitation, sat down on the low railing near her. He observed among the
wild plants that she had gathered the mottled leaves and waxy blossoms
of the pipsissewa and its cousin the shinleaf.

"You have been a long way to get some of those," he said: "that
pipsissewa grows in hemlock woods, and the nearest are several miles
from here."

"I don't know their names. I found them in a wood where I used to walk
sometimes with my brother. _He_ knew all their names. I went there very
early this morning, when the dew was on them."

"'Flowers that have on them the cold dews of the night are strewings
fittest for graves,'" said Putnam in an undertone.

Her face had assumed its usual absent expression, and she seemed busy
with some memory and unconscious of his presence. He recalled the latter
to her by rising and saying, "I will bid you good-morning now, but I
hope you will let me come and sit here sometimes if it doesn't disturb
you. I have been very sick myself lately: I was near dying of the
typhoid fever. I think it does me good to come here."

"Did you have the typhoid? My brother died of the typhoid."

"May I come sometimes?"

"You may come if you wish to visit Henry. But please don't bri