“But perhaps he needed to help you.”

Marjorie bit her lip.  “I wanted to do it alone,” she said.  “I thought it was my work.  I wanted to work, and I was glad that it was hard, and that the stones were all that I could lift,—­it made it seem more like doing something.”

The Dream was silent for a moment, and Marjorie stood dabbling the toe of her shoe in the water.  At last, “Were you selfish?” asked the Dream.

“Yes,” said Marjorie, in a low voice, “I was.”  Then she went back and gathered up her roses, and she and the Dream walked slowly on, soon finding themselves on the outskirts of a town.

Presently the streets grew dingy and the houses high and narrow.  “I don’t see anything to do here,” said Marjorie.  “Couldn’t we go back into the country again?”

“Don’t you see anything to do?” asked the Dream, and just then Marjorie noticed a little child standing on the curbing, it’s hands clasped and it’s eyes fixed upon the bunch of roses.

Selecting the largest and most beautiful one, she placed it in the child’s hands,—­and a little farther on she gave two to a weary-looking woman,—­and then a bud to an old man whose eyes moistened, and whose fingers trembled as he placed it in his button-hole,—­and then a flower to a ragged, hard-featured boy, who held it awkwardly for a moment, his face transfigured, and then dived into the door of a dismal tenement.  And all the way up the squalid street Marjorie distributed her bright blossoms, and always with a cheery word and smile.

At last the houses began to be farther and farther apart, and the yards larger, and presently they found themselves back in the open country once more.  The road was very much like the one by which they had approached the town, pleasant and shady, and with a tiny brook running along the side.  Marjorie bent over the little stream to wash the grime of the city from her hands, and then stopped for a moment to splash the bright drops upon some thirsty flowers growing on the bank and leaning as far over as they could.  While she was doing this, she heard the sound of a hammer close by, and, glancing around, she saw that she was near a farm-house with a large barn and sheds, and that a boy was busily nailing the pickets on to a fence, the frame of which stood a little way back from the road.  Marjorie watched him for a few moments, admiring the evenness with which he placed the pickets, and the sure, firm blows of the hammer; at last, however, she began to grow uneasy.  “Look,” she said to the Dream, “see how close together he is nailing them.  That isn’t the right way.  Why do you suppose he does it so?  He’s just spoiling the looks of his fence.”

“Probably he does it that way because he wants it that way,” said the Dream carelessly.

“But they don’t look well that way, and it takes more pickets and more nails and a longer time.”

The Dream looked at the boy and the fence, critically.  “It’s not such a bad fence,” he said, dryly; “and the boy looks fairly smart, doesn’t he?—­and he handles his tools as if he had built fences before.  Perhaps he knows what he is about.”