"Aunt Phœbe," he said, "I have brought you my friend, Miss Winthrop; Miss Winthrop, this is Aunt Phœbe—my friend."
"Are you feeling bright to-day?" he asked, putting into her hand—with as courtly grace as if she were a duchess—the bunch of white violets. As he did so, he bestowed on Lily one look that meant many words; then he left her free to do much thinking while he gave his attention entirely to Aunt Phœbe.
They talked of books and men and women and work. They spoke glad words to each other of Christ and Heaven, and Hope and Love. Somehow as Lily listened she found herself repeating, "I believe in the communion of saints."
They rose to go, and Lily bent forward and whispered a word of love as she put the roses and heliotrope in Aunt Phoebe's hand.
"Bless you! Dear child," whispered back the old lady. "I've known you this long time. You are a dear flower yourself. I've got more good in looking at your young face while you sat here, never speaking a word, than from some very long speeches." The last few words reached Mr. Thornton's ears, who said:
"That is a blow aimed at me," then taking up the basket of flowers, "Will you come with me, Miss Lily, and help me distribute my blessings?"
So they went, knocking at each old lady's door, leaving handfuls of flowers, and receiving in return benedictions. "But why did you not tell me?" Lily said, "and I would have made them into bouquets."
"Because they enjoy them best in this shape; they love to sort them over and arrange them as they please. Then some have favorite flowers, and I let them choose."
Here, then, was where the rare flowers went that Mr. Thornton purchased. How many revelations were being made!
On the way home Mr. Thornton gave the history of Aunt Phœbe, as well as that of "The Home," its organization, management, workings, etc., leaving nothing whatever for Lily to say, for which she was thankful.