The small red lips pouted. The little curly head gave a vigorous shake.
"But I wants 'em to grow in my hands—so," insisted a threateningly tearful voice, as the tightly clutched flower was thrust forward for inspection.
"But they won't grow there, darling. See!—this one is all crumpled and broken now. It can't even lift its poor little head. Come, we don't want the rest to be like that, do we? Come! Come away with me."
The young eyes grew mutinous.
"I wants 'em to grow in my hand," insisted the red lips again.
"But mother doesn't." There was a resolute note of decision in the quiet voice now; but suddenly it grew wonderfully soft and vibrant. "And daddy wouldn't, either, dearie. Only think how sorry daddy would be to see that poor little flower in Betty's hand!"
As if in response to a potent something in her mother's voice, Betty's eyes grew roundly serious.
"Why—would daddy—be sorry?"
"Because daddy loves all beautiful things, and he wants them to stay beautiful. And this poor little flower in Betty's hand won't be beautiful much longer, I fear. It is all broken and crushed; and daddy—"
With a sudden sense of guilt, as if trespassing on holy ground, the doctor strode forward noisily.