was received as downright
heartlessness. He made a practice, therefore, of withdrawing at once
whenever he found her in this frame of mind.

One day they had been sitting long together. She had appeared unusually
content, but had spoken little. The struggle in her heart had perhaps
worn itself out for the present, and she had yielded to the warm current
of life and hope which was bearing her back into the sunshine. Suddenly
the elderly woman who had formed one of the company in the summer-house
on the day of the thunderstorm passed along the walk with her trowel and
watering-pot. She nodded to Miss Pinckney, and then, pausing opposite
the pair, glanced sharply from one to the other, smiled significantly
and passed on. This trifling incident aroused Putnam's companion from
her reverie: she looked at him with a troubled expression and said, "Do
you think you ought to come here so much?"

"Why not?"

"I don't know. How well did you know my brother Henry?"

"If I didn't know him so very intimately when he was living, I feel that
I know him well now from all that you have told me about him. And, if
you will pardon my saying so, I feel that I know his sister a little
too, and have some title to her acquaintance."

"You have been very kind, and I am grateful for it, but perhaps you
ought not to come so much."

"I'm sorry if I have come too much," rejoined Putnam bitterly, "but I
shall not come much more. I am going away soon. The doctor says I am not
getting along fast enough and must have change of air. He has ordered me
to the mountains."

There was silence for a few minutes. He was looking moodily down at the
turf, pulling a blade of grass now and then, biting it and throwing it
away.

"I thank you very much for your sympathy and kindness," she said at
length, rising from her chair; "and I hope you will recover very fast in
the mountains. Good-bye."

She extended her hand, which Putnam took and held. It was trembling
perceptibly. "Wait a moment," he said. "Before I go I should like to
show some little mark of respect to your brother's memory. Won't you
meet me at the green-house to-morrow morning--say about nine
o'clock--and select a few flowers? They will be your flowers, you
know--your offering."

"Yes," she answered, "I will; and I thank you again for him."

The next morning at the appointed hour Putnam descended the steps into
the green-house. The gardener had just watered the plants. A rich steam
exhale