“H’m-m. You might know I ain’t a blabber, anyway!”
“Of course you’re not. I depend on you. Good-night.”
Beatrice passed into the parlor and lifted her treasure from the table, then turned to leave as quietly as she had entered.
“Where are you going with those, Bonny?” asked Isabelle, drowsily; and her sister started as if she had been guilty of wrong-doing.
“I think they will keep better if I take them out of the basket and put them in a pail of water,” replied Bonny, hastily.
“I suppose they would. But it seems a pity to disturb such a perfect arrangement, and I do not think they would wither even that way very soon. They last well.”
“I am glad of that. I would not have them wither for anything!” replied the innocent conspirator, feeling as if she wanted to bury her face in the flowers and cry; only she reflected that salt water was supposed to be injurious to delicate petals and refrained. But when she went to bed that night she had taken each chrysanthemum carefully from its mossy nest and, after clipping its stem slightly, plunged it into a pail of fresh water and placed it in the coolest place the house afforded.
CHAPTER V.
IN OLD TRINITY.
“FLOWERS? Flowers? Chrysanthemums? Any, madam?”
“How much?”