But, dear me—instead of looking upon the slate, his eyes never fell a bit lower than that little rose-bud—a pretty teacher, to be sure!
“Ahem—that is a beautiful rose, Miss May!”
“Yes, sir.”
“You—you are fond of flowers, I see.”
“Yes, sir.”
“They are a favorite study of mine—are you much versed in the language of flowers, my—ahem—Miss May?”
“They always speak to me of God’s love and goodness,” replied May, as demurely as if she had been answering her minister.
“True, dear Miss May,” said Harry. “They are indeed, as the poet says—‘the smiles of angels’ blessing and cheering us on our earthly pilgrimage—but aside from this heavenly mission, the poet has also bestowed upon them another language:
“‘In eastern lands they talk in flowers,
And they tell in a garland their loves and cares,