As the hall door shut behind Barber, Johnnie could scarcely keep himself down in his chair. He wanted to look out of the window to try if he could not see Cis. But he stayed where he was, and twisted away busily. Barber might be at his old tricks; might open the door at any moment. But also, just so many violets must be made of a Sunday, and just that many would be made. A scout is trustworthy.
Yet just so many violets were not to be made, thus proving how uncertain life is. For here came Cis, switching her way in importantly. She was panting. She was flushed. Cautiously she shut the door behind her. "I've been up on Mrs. Kukor's stairs, waiting," she half whispered. Under one arm she was carrying a long, satiny-white box.
"Another doll?" demanded Johnnie, astonished and disappointed. To him any long, white box could mean nothing else. However, he rose, unable to be entirely indifferent even to a new doll.
"Doll!" cried Cis, scornfully. She dropped the box on the table.
Then Johnnie saw that it was not a doll; for out of one end of the box—an end that was open—extended a handful of long, slender, green stems. The gift was flowers, tied, not with common string, but with a flat, green tape which looked fully as expensive as ribbon, and nearly as handsome. "Oh, gee!"—this as he seized the stems, not being able to wait, he was so excited, and tried to draw the flowers from the box. "Oh, Cis, d'y' s'pose these 're from One-Eye? D'y' think maybe One-Eye is back?—Oh, hurry!"
"Wait!"—speaking gently, yet with something of a high-and-mighty air. "Johnnie, you've got One-Eye on the brain." The cord untied, she slipped the cover off the box. Next she swept aside a froth of crisp tissue-paper which was still veiling the gift. Then together they looked down.
"O-o-o-o-h!" It was a chorus.
Roses! Pink roses! A very pile of them, snuggling in the cool, delicate greenery of ferns! Up from them lifted a fragrance that rivaled even that of orris root. Cis leaned to breathe. Next, Johnnie leaned, all but swelling to the bursting point that flat little chest of his to take in the delicious perfume. Thus for a while, and without speaking, they dipped their heads, alternating, to the box.
Presently, Cis lifted the bouquet—almost with reverence. The cups of the flowers were narrow, looked into from directly above, as if each flower had just opened. And, oh, how young each seemed! and how beautiful! When, in all the years since the tenement had been built, had it sheltered such loveliness! Bravely enough the dark, smudgy kitchen, with its scabby walls and its greasy, splintery floor, grew knots of violets. But here were flowers not made by hands: flowers which had come up out of the earth!—yet with a perfectness which was surely not of the earth; certainly not, at any rate, of this particular corner of it situated in the Lower East Side.
"My first roses!" Cis said. Her tone implied that they were not her last.