Pearl stopped at the door.  “No, Jim,” she said, “it’s not visitin’ I am, but I will go in for a minute, for I must put this flower in the box.  Can ye go to town, Jim, in a hurry?”

“I can,” Jim replied.

“I mean now, this very minute, slappet-bang!”

Jim started for the door.

“Howld on, Jim!” Pearl cried, “don’t you want to hear what ye’r goin’ for?  Take this box to Camilla—­Camilla E. Rose at Mrs. Francis’s—­and she’ll do the rest.  It’s flowers for poor Polly, sick and dyin’ maybe with the fever.  But dead or alive, flowers are all right for folks, ain’t they, Jim?  The train goes at ten o’clock.  Can ye do it, Jim?”

Jim was brushing his hair with one hand and reaching for his coat with the other.

“Here’s the money to pay for the ride on the cars,” Pearl said, reaching out five of her coins.

Jim waved his hand.

“That’s my share of it,” he said, pulling his cap down on his head.  “You see, you do the first part, then me, then Camilla—­just like the fiery cross.”  He was half way to the stable as he spoke.

He threw the saddle on Chiniquy and was soon galloping down the road with the box under his arm.

Camilla came to the door in answer to Jim’s ring.

He handed her the box, and lifting his hat was about to leave without a word, when Camilla noticed the writing.

“From Pearl,” she said eagerly.  “How is Pearl?  Come in, please, while I read the letter—­it may require an answer.”

Camilla wore a shirt-waist suit of brown, and the neatest collar and tie, and Jim suddenly became conscious that his boots were not blackened.

Camilla left him in the hall, while she went into the library and read the contents of the letter to Mr. and Mrs. Francis.

She returned presently and with a pleasant smile said, holding out her hand, “You are Mr. Russell.  I am glad to meet you.  Tell Pearl the flowers will be sent to-night.”

She opened the door as she spoke, and Jim found himself going down the steps, wondering just how it happened that he had not said one word—­he who was usually so ready of speech.

“Well, well,” he said to himself as he untied Chiniquy, “little Jimmy’s lost his tongue, I wonder why?”

All the way home the vision of lovely dark eyes and rippling brown hair with just a hint of red in it, danced before him.  Chiniquy, taking advantage of his master’s preoccupation, wandered aimlessly against a barbed wire, taking very good care not to get too close to it himself.  Jim came to himself just in time to save his leg from a prod from the spikes.

“Chiniquy, Chiniquy,” he said gravely, “I understand now something of the hatred the French bear your illustrious namesake.  But no matter what the man’s sins may have been, surely he did not deserve to have a little flea-bitten, mangey, treacherous, mouse-coloured deceiver like you named for him.”