"I've be'n into Mis' Flood's," she said, "an' she gi'n me this." She walked over to her sister, bearing the treasure with a joyous pride. "It's as nice a slip o' rose geranium as ever I see."
Hetty's face contracted sharply.
"I've throwed away the flowers," she said.
Both sisters glanced at her in sympathetic knowledge. Caroline was busily setting out the slip in a side of the calla pot, and she got a tumbler to cover it.
"Them parson's wife sent over?" she asked.
Hetty nodded. "There was a dozen of 'em," she continued, with pride, "white carnation pinks."
"She sent way to Fairfax for 'em," said Caroline. "Her girl told me. Handsome, wa'n't they?"
"They wa'n't no handsomer'n what come from round here," said Hetty jealously, "not a mite. There you sent over your calla, an' Mis' Flood cut off that long piece o' German ivy, an' the little Ballard gal,—nothin' would do but she must pick all them gloxinias an' have 'em for Willard's funeral. I didn't hardly know there was so many flowers in the world, in winter time." She mused a moment, her face fallen into grief. Then she roused herself. "What'd you mean by askin' if I had company?" she interrogated Caroline.
"Nothin', on'y they say Susan's boy's round here."
"Susan's boy? From out West?"