CHAPTER XVII.
The next morning, as I was coming up the steps with my white muslin apron fall of gathered flowers, I met Ernest Linwood. I was always an early riser. Dear, faithful Peggy had taught me this rural habit, and I have reason to bless her for it.
"I see where you get your roses," said he; I knew he did not mean the roses in my apron, and those to which he alluded grew brighter as he spoke.
"Am I indebted to you for the beautiful flowers in my own apartment?" he asked, as he turned back and entered the house with me, "or was it Edith's sisterly hand placed them there?"
"Are you pleased with them?" I said, with a childish delight. It seemed to me a great thing that he had noticed them at all. "As Edith is lame, she indulges me in carrying out her own sweet tastes. I assure you I esteem it an inestimable privilege."
"You love flowers, then?"
"O yes, passionately. I have almost an idolatrous love for them."
"And does it not make you sad to see them wither away, in spite of your passionate love?"
"Yes, but others bloom in their stead. 'T is but a change from blossom to blossom."