I handed him a bunch of daffodils.
"Smell those," said I.
He buried his face in them and breathed as though he were drawing into his lungs the very first breath of spring.
"Send a bunch of them to your sister," I added casually; "it'll cheer her up if she's still taking to religion."
His face lit up with a wonderful smile of gratitude.
"It's very good of you, sir,—I can't afford daffodils yet—not till they're a bit cheaper. Amy will be pleased."
How easy it is to spoil women, thought I.
Oh—but that morning when they brought the first daffodils into market. You knew then you had been waiting for them so long, as on some dreary, lonely road you stand, long waiting for the mistress of your heart. The moments pass by and still she does not come. But you know in your spirit that she cannot fail. When last you met, she gave her promise and, sooner would you believe the heavens might fall, than that her promise should be broken. But suddenly you hear her. The faint distant sound of her little feet comes tapping softly along the road into your ears. For that first instant your heart stops its beating that you might hear aright. Then nearer she comes and nearer.... Another moment and you can dimly discern her figure against a darkening belt of trees. The footsteps quicken, for by this time she has seen you too. At last she is close within your arms, and her cheek, so cool and damp with the dew that it has gathered, is laid against your cheek.
It is somehow like this that the daffodils are brought one frosty morning to those who wait for them in Covent Garden.
So you come of a sudden into a golden glory. A man holds out a bunch before you and says: