But Betty's nonsense lent an air of romance and mystery that was well adapted to captivate the imagination of a young, ardent, and solitary spirit like Leonard.
He would have called on the lady he suspected, and thanked her for her kindness. But this he feared would be unwelcome, since she chose to be his unknown benefactress. It would be ill taste in him to tell her he had found her out: it might offend her sensibility, and then she would draw in.
He kept his gratitude therefore to himself, and did not cool it by utterance. He often sat among the flowers, in a sweet reverie, enjoying their color and fragrance: and sometimes he would shut his eyes, and call up the angelical face with great celestial up-turned orbs, and fancy it among her own flowers, and the queen of them all.
These day-dreams did not at that time interfere with his religious duties. They only took the place of those occasional hours, when, partly by the reaction consequent on great religious fervour, partly through exhaustion of the body weakened by fasts, partly by the natural delicacy of his fibre, and the tenderness of his disposition, his soul used to be sad.
By-and-by these languid hours, sad no longer, became sweet and dear to him. He had something so interesting to think of, to dream about. He had a Madonna that cared for him in secret.
She was human; but good, beautiful, and wise. She came to his sermons, and understood every word.
"And she knows me better than I know myself," said he: "since I had these flowers from her hand, I am another man."
One day he came into his room and found two watering pots there. One was large and had a rose to it, the other small and with a plain spout.
"Ah!" said he; and colored with delight. He called Betty, and asked her who had brought them.
"How should I know?" said she, roughly. "I dare say they dropped from Heaven. See, there is a cross painted on 'em in gold letters."