"More—tell us more," said the underground flowers.
"There is no more to tell," replied the May-flower, faintly. "It is cold out here, and I am growing sleepy. Good-night."
After that there was silence in the woods.
Winnie and Charlie never knew how the dear little flower-people had conspired to make their May-day happy. Perhaps Blossom guessed, for when she laid aside her wreath that night she kissed the soft petals, which had begun to droop a little, and whispered gently,—
"Thank you, darlings."
A SMALL BEGINNING.
LITTLE ground-floor room, a little fire in a small stove, burning dully as fires are apt to do at times when their blaze might be worth something in the way of cheer; out doors the raw gray of a spring thaw; on the window-seat two girls crouched together and looking out with faces as disconsolate as the weather. Such was the picture presented at No. 13 Farewell Street, three years ago last March.