"See her?" she repeated. "How under the sun you going to do that? You don't know her, nor any of her folks. Seems if she'd think 'twas terrible queer."
"She's used to it," said Jerry raptly. "She must be. People with gifts like that—why, of course folks go to see 'em."
He was removed and silent after this, and had scarcely a word for Marietta's late-blooming calla that had held her in suspense through the winter when she had wanted it, to unroll its austere deliciousness now in the spring. She brought him the heavy pot almost timidly, and Jerry put out his hand and touched the snowy texture of the bloom. But he did it absently, and she understood that his mind was not with her, and that there was little likelihood of his inditing a set of verses to the lily, as she had hoped. He got up and carried it to the stand for her, and there he paused for a moment beside it, coming awake, she thought. But after that period of musing he took up his hat from the little table between the windows and stood there holding it.
"Marietta," said he, with a simple and moved directness, "what if I should carry her one of these?"
"One of my lilies?"
"Yes."
She brushed a bit of dust from a smooth green leaf, and the color rose to her face. She seemed to conquer something.
"When you going?" she asked, in a subdued tone.
"I thought I'd go to-morrow."
"Well, you can have the lily, all three of 'em if you want—have 'em and welcome."