Then she went away to the conservatory, feeling rather oppressed with the pity and sympathy, for which there was no call, and fervently wishing that David would not be so comfortable, for he ate a hearty dinner, laughed four times, and whistled as no heart-broken man would dream of doing.

No one was visible as she went in, and walking slowly down the green aisle, she gave herself up to the enjoyment of the lovely place.  The damp, sweet air made summer there, and a group of slender, oriental trees whispered in the breath of wind that blew in from an open sash.  Strange vines and flowers hung overhead; banks of azaleas, ruddy, white, and purple, bloomed in one place; roses of every hue turned their lovely faces to the sun; ranks of delicate ferns, and heaths with their waxen bells, were close by; glowing geraniums and stately lilies side by side; savage-looking scarlet flowers with purple hearts, or orange spikes rising from leaves mottled with strange colors; dusky passion-flowers, and gay nasturtiums climbing to the roof.  All manner of beautiful and curious plants were there; and Christie walked among them, as happy as a child who finds its playmates again.

Coming to a bed of pansies she sat down on a rustic chair, and, leaning forward, feasted her eyes on these her favorites.  Her face grew young as she looked, her hands touched them with a lingering tenderness as if to her they were half human, and her own eyes were so busy enjoying the gold and purple spread before her, that she did not see another pair peering at her over an unneighborly old cactus, all prickles, and queer knobs.  Presently a voice said at her elbow: 

“You look as if you saw something beside pansies there.”

David spoke so quietly that it did not startle her, and she answered before she had time to feel ashamed of her fancy.

“I do; for, ever since I was a child, I always see a little face when I look at this flower.  Sometimes it is a sad one, sometimes it’s merry, often roguish, but always a dear little face; and when I see so many together, it’s like a flock of children, all nodding and smiling at me at once.”

“So it is!” and David nodded, and smiled himself, as he handed her two or three of the finest, as if it was as natural a thing as to put a sprig of mignonette in his own button-hole.

Christie thanked him, and then jumped up, remembering that she came there to work, not to dream.  He seemed to understand, and went into a little room near by, saying, as he pointed to a heap of gay flowers on the table: 

“These are to be made into little bouquets for a ‘German’ to-night.  It is pretty work, and better fitted for a woman’s fingers than a man’s.  This is all you have to do, and you can vise your taste as to colors.”

While he spoke David laid a red and white carnation on a bit of smilax, tied them together, twisted a morsel of silver foil about the stems, and laid it before Christie as a sample.