So Tom went away. But the next time Ethel went into the greenhouse with a bright face, she could not help laughing at Tom's addition to her verses. She read:—
"Here my poor begonia lies,
Drop a tear and wipe your eyes—
The door was open—if you had locked it,
The bow with the kitten couldn't have knocked it."
The winter passed; and Ethel's birthday came in the spring.
"Here is a silver pencil for you to write poetry with," said Tom, mischievously. Poetry or not the silver pencil was worth having, and Ethel felt that teasing Tom was fond of her. Ah! what could she do without Tom, or without the teasing either? "Come into the greenhouse," he said; "there's a begonia for you."
"Is there? I thought I had all my presents."
She went racing to the greenhouse, and came back with a disappointed face. "Why do you cheat me, Tom? This is not the first of April."
"Come and see." He led her into the greenhouse to the pink begonia's grave.
They both stooped down to the corner of the earthen floor near the hot pipes.
There was a dark red folded leaf growing above the earth.
"Oh, Tom! it is my own dear old plant."