“Why, he is not even looking at them!” cried Susan, and she clapped her hands and laughed gleefully.

“Oh, yes, he is; leastways he is looking at one of them, and the brightest of the lot to my fancy.”

Susan colored with pleasure.  In the country compliments don’t drip constantly on beauty even from the lips of love.  Then, suppressing her satisfaction, she said, “You will look for a flower in return for that, young man; come and let us see whether there is one good enough for you.”  So then they took hands, and Susan drew him demurely about the garden.  Presently she stopped with a little start of hypocritical admiration; at their feet shone a marigold.  Susan culled the gaudy flower and placed it affectionately in George’s buttonhole.  He received it proudly, and shaking hands with her, for it was time to part, turned away slowly.  She let him take a step or two, then called him back.  “He was really going off with that nasty thing.”  She took it out of his buttonhole, rubbed it against his nose with well-feigned anger and then threw it away.

“You are all behind in flowers, George,” said Susan; “here, this is good enough for you,” and she brought out from under her apron, where she had carried the furtively culled treasure, a lovely clove-pink.  Pretty soul, she had nursed and watered and cherished this choice flower this three weeks past for George, and this was her way of giving it him at last; so a true woman gives—­(her life, if need be).  George took it and smelled it, and lingered a moment at the garden gate, and moralized on it.  “Well, Susan, dear, now I’m not so deep in flowers as you, but I like this a deal better than the marigold, and I’ll tell you for why; it is more like you, Susan.”

“Ay! why?”

“I see flowers that are pretty, but have no smell, and I see women that have good looks, but no great wisdom nor goodness when you come nearer to them.  Now the marigold is like those lasses; but this pink is good as well as pretty, so then it will stand for you, when we are apart, as we mostly are—­worse luck for me.”

“Oh, George,” said Susan, dropping her quizzing manner, “I am a long way behind the marigold or any flower in comeliness and innocence, but at least I wish I was better.”

“I don’t.”

“Ay, but I do, ten times better, for—­for—­”

“For why, Susan?”

Susan closed the garden gate and took a step toward the house.  Then, turning her head over her shoulder, with an ineffable look of tenderness, tipped with one tint of lingering archness, she let fall, “For your sake, George,” in the direction of George’s feet, and glided across the garden into the house.