He stopped and gazed into the fire.
"Was she pleased with them?"
"She was dead. We put them in her coffin. They were buried with her."
Margie laid her hand lightly on his.
"I am so sorry for you! I, too, have buried my mother."
After a little silence, Arch went on.
"The next time you saw me was when you gave me these." He took out his pocket-book, and displayed to her, folded in white paper, a cluster of faded bluebells. "Do you remember them?"
"I think I do. You were knocked down by the pole of the carriage?"
"Yes. And the next time? Do you remember the next time?"
"I do."