“And you were born here?”

He had not intended to voice that thought.

“Yes,” she said, looking into his eyes.  “Just in time to prevent my mother from saving the life of my father.  She came near never forgiving me.”

“Ah, cruel!” cried Philip.

“I find much in life that is cruel, from our standpoints,” said Elnora.  “It takes the large wisdom of the Unfathomable, the philosophy of the Almighty, to endure some of it.  But there is always right somewhere, and at last it seems to come.”

“Will it come to you?” asked Philip, who found himself deeply affected.

“It has come,” said the girl serenely.  “It came a week ago.  It came in fullest measure when my mother ceased to regret that I had been born.  Now, work that I love has come—­that should constitute happiness.  A little farther along is my violet bed.  I want you to see it.”

As Philip Ammon followed he definitely settled upon the name of the unusual feature of Elnora’s face.  It should be called “experience.”  She had known bitter experiences early in life.  Suffering had been her familiar more than joy.  He watched her earnestly, his heart deeply moved.  She led him into a swampy half-open space in the woods, stopped and stepped aside.  He uttered a cry of surprised delight.

A few decaying logs were scattered around, the grass grew in tufts long and fine.  Blue flags waved, clusters of cowslips nodded gold heads, but the whole earth was purple with a thick blanket of violets nodding from stems a foot in length.  Elnora knelt and slipping her fingers between the leaves and grasses to the roots, gathered a few violets and gave them to Philip.

“Can your city greenhouses surpass them?” she asked.

He sat on a log to examine the blooms.

“They are superb!” he said.  “I never saw such length of stem or such rank leaves, while the flowers are the deepest blue, the truest violet I ever saw growing wild.  They are coloured exactly like the eyes of the girl I am going to marry.”

Elnora handed him several others to add to those he held.  “She must have wonderful eyes,” she commented.

“No other blue eyes are quite so beautiful,” he said.  “In fact, she is altogether lovely.”

“Is it customary for a man to think the girl he is going to marry lovely?  I wonder if I should find her so.”

“You would,” said Philip.  “No one ever fails to.  She is tall as you, very slender, but perfectly rounded; you know about her eyes; her hair is black and wavy—­while her complexion is clear and flushed with red.”

“Why, she must be the most beautiful girl in the whole world!” she cried.

“No, indeed!” he said.  “She is not a particle better looking in her way than you are in yours.  She is a type of dark beauty, but you are equally as perfect.  She is unusual in her combination of black hair and violet eyes, although every one thinks them black at a little distance.  You are quite as unusual with your fair face, black brows, and brown hair; indeed, I know many people who would prefer your bright head to her dark one.  It’s all a question of taste—­and being engaged to the girl,” he added.