"Well! What of the stars?" asked the silvery voice.
I was dumb. She flung the flowers aside as though she would leave; but Father Holland suddenly emerged from the tent fanning himself with his hat.
"Babes!" said he. "You're a pair of fools! Oh! To be young and throw our opportunities helter-skelter like flowers of which we're tired," and he looked at the upset lapful. "Children! children! Carpe Diem! Carpe Diem! Pluck the flowers; for the days are swifter than arrows," and he walked away from us engrossed in his own thoughts, muttering over and over the advice of the Latin poet, "Carpe Diem! Carpe Diem!"
"What is Carpe Diem?" asked Frances Sutherland, gazing after the priest in sheer wonder.
"I wasn't strong on classics at Laval and I haven't my crib."
"Go on!" she commanded. "You're only apologizing for my ignorance. You know very well."
"It means just what he says—as if each day were a flower, you know, had its joys to be plucked, that can never come again."
"Flowers! Oh! I know! The kind you all picked for me coming up from Fort William. And do you know, Rufus, I never could thank you all? Were those Carpe Diem flowers?"
"No—not exactly the kind Father Holland means we should pick."
"What then?" and she turned suddenly to find her face not a hand's length from mine.