they sat down on a fallen log.  Looking about him, Rowland espied a curious wild shrub, with a spotted crimson leaf; he went and plucked a spray of it and brought it to Miss Garland.  He had never observed it before, but she immediately called it by its name.  She expressed surprise at his not knowing it; it was extremely common.  He presently brought her a specimen of another delicate plant, with a little blue-streaked flower.  “I suppose that ’s common, too,” he said, “but I have never seen it—­or noticed it, at least.”  She answered that this one was rare, and meditated a moment before she could remember its name.  At last she recalled it, and expressed surprise at his having found the plant in the woods; she supposed it grew only in open marshes.  Rowland complimented her on her fund of useful information.

“It ’s not especially useful,” she answered; “but I like to know the names of plants as I do those of my acquaintances.  When we walk in the woods at home—­which we do so much—­it seems as unnatural not to know what to call the flowers as it would be to see some one in the town with whom we were not on speaking terms.”

“Apropos of frivolity,” Rowland said, “I ’m sure you have very little of it, unless at West Nazareth it is considered frivolous to walk in the woods and nod to the nodding flowers.  Do kindly tell me a little about yourself.”  And to compel her to begin, “I know you come of a race of theologians,” he went on.

“No,” she replied, deliberating; “they are not theologians, though they are ministers.  We don’t take a very firm stand upon doctrine; we are practical, rather.  We write sermons and preach them, but we do a great deal of hard work beside.”

“And of this hard work what has your share been?”

“The hardest part:  doing nothing.”

“What do you call nothing?”

“I taught school a while:  I must make the most of that.  But I confess I did n’t like it.  Otherwise, I have only done little things at home, as they turned up.”

“What kind of things?”

“Oh, every kind.  If you had seen my home, you would understand.”

Rowland would have liked to make her specify; but he felt a more urgent need to respect her simplicity than he had ever felt to defer to the complex circumstance of certain other women.  “To be happy, I imagine,” he contented himself with saying, “you need to be occupied.  You need to have something to expend yourself upon.”

“That is not so true as it once was; now that I am older, I am sure I am less impatient of leisure.  Certainly, these two months that I have been with Mrs. Hudson, I have had a terrible amount of it.  And yet I have liked it!  And now that I am probably to be with her all the while that her son is away, I look forward to more with a resignation that I don’t quite know what to make of.”

“It is settled, then, that you are to remain with your cousin?”

“It depends upon their writing from home that I may stay.  But that is probable.  Only I must not forget,” she said, rising, “that the ground for my doing so is that she be not left alone.”