“What kind of flowers do you think we’d better send?”
“Pink carnations.”
“Oh, no, carnations are too common!”
“Violets then.”
“Oh, spare her that! He gave her violets that afternoon at Versailles!”
“Roses, why not?”
“Anything but red roses. They mean undying love, and hers is dead.”
“Why not send her daffodils?” proposed Virginia. “They’re so cheery and hopeful, and look like spring.”
Every one seemed agreed that, under the circumstances, Virginia’s choice was the most appropriate. It was thereupon decided that daffodils be sent to Miss Wallace; but that, to save her possible embarrassment, the names of the donors be kept secret. Dorothy and Vivian were delegated to go to Hillcrest and make the purchase, while the others tried to enliven their sympathetic hearts by tennis.
Meanwhile, during this session of sympathy in her behalf, Miss Wallace sat in her school-room, correcting an avalanche of themes, which seemed to have no end. “Dear me!” she sighed to herself, “no girl in this whole school will be so glad of vacation as I. I’ve never taught through such a year.”