not disappeared, while I saw promise of the early unfolding of many other pet flowers of mine.  I confess that I took a careful survey of the garden to see how fine a bouquet I might make for Miss Mayton, and was so abundantly satisfied with the material before me that I longed to begin the work at once, but that it would seem too hasty for true gentility.  So I paced the paths, my hands behind my back, and my face well hidden by fragrant clouds of smoke, and went into wondering and reveries.  I wondered if there was any sense in the language of flowers, of which I had occasionally seen mention made by silly writers; I wished I had learned it if it had any meaning; I wondered if Miss Mayton understood it.  At any rate, I fancied I could arrange flowers to the taste of any lady whose face I had ever seen; and for Alice Mayton I would make something so superb that her face could not help lighting up when she beheld it.  I imagined just how her bluish-gray eyes would brighten, her cheeks would redden,—­not with sentiment, not a bit of it; but with genuine pleasure,—­how her strong lips would part slightly and disclose sweet lines not displayed when she held her features well in hand.  I—­I, a clear-headed, driving, successful salesman of white goods—­actually wished I might be divested of all nineteenth-century abilities and characteristics, and be one of those fairies that only silly girls and crazy poets think of, and might, unseen, behold the meeting of my flowers with this highly cultivated specimen of the only sort of flowers our cities produce.  What flower did she most resemble?  A lily?—­no; too—­not exactly too bold, but too—­too, well, I couldn’t think of the word, but clearly it wasn’t bold.  A rose!  Certainly, not like those glorious but blazing remontants, nor yet like the shy, delicate, ethereal tea-roses with their tender suggestions of color.  Like this perfect Gloire de Dijon, perhaps; strong, vigorous, self-asserting, among its more delicate sisterhood; yet shapely, perfect in outline and development, exquisite, enchanting in its never fully-analyzed tints, yet compelling the admiration of every one, and recalling its admirers again and again by the unspoken appeal of its own perfection—­its unvarying radiance.

“Ah—­h—­h—­h—­ee—­ee—­ee—­ee—­ee—­oo—­oo—­oo—­oo” came from the window over my head.  Then came a shout of—­“Uncle Harry!” in a voice I recognized as that of Budge.  I made no reply:  there are moments when the soul is full of utterances unfit to be heard by childish ears.  “Uncle Har-Ray!” repeated Budge.  Then I heard a window-blind open, and Budge exclaiming:—­

“Uncle Harry, we want you to come and tell us stories.”

I turned my eyes upward quickly, and was about to send a savage negative in the same direction, when I saw in the window a face unknown and yet remembered.  Could those great, wistful eyes, that angelic mouth, that spiritual expression, belong to my nephew Budge?  Yes, it must be—­certainly that super-celestial nose and those enormous ears never belonged to any one else.  I turned abruptly, and entered the house, and was received at the head of the stairway by two little figures in white, the larger of which remarked:—­