“Will these do?  I have varied the posies as much as possible, so that they may suit all sorts of tastes and whirns.  I never went to a ‘German’ myself; but I have looked on, and remember hearing the young people say the little bouquets didn’t mean any thing, so I tried to make these expressive.”

“Well, I should think you had succeeded excellently, and it is a very pretty fancy.  Tell me what some of them mean:  will you?”

“You should know better than I, being a florist,” said Christie, glad to see he approved of her work.

“I can grow the flowers, but not read them,” and David looked rather depressed by his own ignorance of those delicate matters.

Still with the business-like air, Christie held up one after another of the little knots, saying soberly, though her eyes smiled: 

“This white one might be given to a newly engaged girl, as suggestive of the coming bridal.  That half-blown bud would say a great deal from a lover to his idol; and this heliotrope be most encouraging to a timid swain.  Here is a rosy daisy for some merry little damsel; there is a scarlet posy for a soldier; this delicate azalea and fern for some lovely creature just out; and there is a bunch of sober pansies for a spinster, if spinsters go to ‘Germans.’  Heath, scentless but pretty, would do for many; these Parma violets for one with a sorrow; and this curious purple flower with arrow-shaped stamens would just suit a handsome, sharp-tongued woman, if any partner dared give it to her.”

David laughed, as his eye went from the flowers to Christie’s face, and when she laid down the last breast-knot, looking as if she would like the chance of presenting it to some one she knew, he seemed much amused.

“If the beaux and belles at this party have the wit to read your posies, my fortune will be made, and you will have your hands full supplying compliments, declarations, rebukes, and criticisms for the fashionable butterflies.  I wish I could put consolation, hope, and submission into my work as easily, but I am afraid I can’t,” he added a moment afterward with a changed face, as he began to lay the loveliest white flowers into a box.

“Those are not for a wedding, then?”

“For a dead baby; and I can’t seem to find any white and sweet enough.”

“You know the people?” asked Christie, with the sympathetic tone in her voice.

“Never saw or heard of them till to-day.  Isn’t it enough to know that ‘baby’s dead,’ as the poor man said, to make one feel for them?”

“Of course it is; only you seemed so interested in arranging the flowers, I naturally thought it was for some friend,” Christie answered hastily, for David looked half indignant at her question.

“I want them to look lovely and comforting when the mother opens the box, and I don’t seem to have the right flowers.  Will you give it a touch? women have a tender way of doing such things that we can never learn.”