"Henry Walker couldn't have sent them," I pondered the first day, as the big, big box was deposited inside my door. "He's not such a close friend, even though he is the Hiram Walkers' son—and then, New York law students never have any money left over for orchids."
I enumerated all the other people I happened to know in New York at that time, all of them there for the purpose of "studying" something, and not for the purpose of buying vast quantities of the highest-priced flower blown, and the mystery only loomed larger.
Still, the question could not keep me entirely occupied between meals, and on the very day we sailed, before we had got into the space where the union of the sea and sky seem to shut out all pettiness, I got to feeling very sorry for myself. Thinking to get rid of this by mingling with humanity, I went down into the lounge, where I was amazed to find dozens of other women sitting around feeling sorry for themselves. It was not an inspiring sight, so after a vain attempt to read, I curled my arms round a sofa cushion in the corner of the big room and turned my face away from the world in general. The next communication I received was rather unexpected. I heard a brisk voice, close beside me exclaim:
"My word! A great big girl like you crying!"
It was an English voice—a woman's, or rather a girl's, and as I braced up indignantly I met the blue-gray eyes of a fresh-faced young Amazon bent toward my corner sympathetically.
"I'm not crying," I denied.
She turned directly toward me then, and I saw a surprised smile come over her face.
"Oh, you! No—I supposed that you were ill; but the little kid over there——"
I saw then that there was a tiny girl tucked farther away into the corner, her shoulders heaving between the conflict of pride and grief.
"Cheer up, and I'll tell you a story," the English girl encouraged, and after a few minutes the small flushed face came out of its hiding-place.