"No one at the Lodge seems to know."
"Not even his mother?"
"No."
She started forward suddenly, stooping to pick a tiny sprig of forget-me-not that gemmed the border.
"The very first of the season!" she exclaimed in childish delight; "you dear little blossoms! how dared you venture here before there is even a rose-bud to bear you company? Here, Hubert," she cried, "you shall wear them!"
She was about to attach the spray to the lapel of his coat, when she surprised a look of keen disappointment, almost of chagrin upon his face.
"You do not like them!" she murmured, turning sad in a moment, as an April day is obscured.
He took her hands in his gently, but there was a note of firmness in his voice, as he said,
"It is not to the flowers that I object, but to the way in which you slight their meaning."
"What can you mean?" she asked in a puzzled, nearly pained way.