“What beauties!” he exclaimed. “But are you sure they are for me?”
“If she decides to give them to you, sir.”
“She? Who? Bridget or Maggie?”
“Neither. They belong to the lady who is now absent; whose soul is the Flower of Truth, and whose beauty is the Glory of the Morning.” Then he added, with a gesture of humility, “That is, of course, if she will deign to accept them.”
“But, my well-meaning young friend, were you gifted with less poetry and more experience you would know that these roses will be faded and decaying memories long before the recipient returns. And you a farmer!”
Amos looked at the clock. “You seem to have precious little confidence in my flowers, sir. They are good for three hours, I think.”
“Three hours! Yes, but to-day is Wednesday and it is many times three hours before next Monday afternoon.”
A look of such complete surprise came into Amos’s face that Mr. Cabot smiled as he asked, “Didn’t you know her visit was to last a fortnight?”
The young man made no answer to this, but looked first at his questioner and then at his roses with an air that struck Mr. Cabot at the moment as one of embarrassment. As he recalled it afterward, however, he gave it a different significance. With his eyes still on the flowers Amos, in a lower voice, said, “Don’t you know that she is coming to-day?”
“No. Do you?”