“Where did they come from, so fresh, and such long stems? There is one on your train; it seems to be buried in snow—such a lovely color,” cried Ruth, fairly trembling with delight. “Now I will make the dress perfect.”
“Where did I get them?” answered James, emptying his fragrant burden on Ruthy’s couch, and kneeling down to gather up the portion scattered around Eva. “It’s a pretty way to find out, smothering a fellow with kisses, and asking him to talk. Well, if you want to know, a friend of mine gave them to me.”
“A friend? Oh, James!”
“Yes, I say it again—a friend. You have seen him, Eva, through an iron fence; gray hair; legs like broomsticks. Does it strike you?”
“What, that old man?. No!”
“I tell you, yes! He was watching for me by the gate. I’d been leaving some groceries in the basement, you know, and took a peep through the railing. Always do. The gate opened softly, and his queer old face looked through.
‘Come in!’ says he. ‘Have you got a basket?’
“‘No,’ says I. ‘The cook hadn’t time to empty it.’
“‘Well, come along; I want to send something to that pretty sister of yours,’ says he.
“I went in, so astonished, that I was steering through the middle of a flower-bed, when he called out, ‘This way!’ and went on among a whole heap of bushes, just as full of roses as they could hold. Here he took out a great jack-knife, and cut away like fun, giving the flowers to me till my arms were full, and their breath made me long to dance.