The old man shook his head threateningly at the bushes. "I can settle them," he said.
"Better than any one else. Has Martha heard him say when he is going away?"
"To-morrow," he replied, conceding something in return for the lilacs.
"These are the chrysanthemums. They are white, but some are perfect and some are imperfect, you see. Those that are perfect are the ones to feel proud of, but the others are the ones to love."
"If all were perfect would you no longer love them?" he said gently, thinking how perfect she was and how easy it would be to love her.
"If all were perfect, I could love all alike, because none would need to be loved more than others."
"And when the flowers in the garden are dead, what do you find to love then?" he asked, laughing a little and trying to follow her mood.
"It would not be fair to forget them because they are dead. But they are not dead; they go away for a season, and it would not be fair to forget them because they have gone away." This she said simply and seriously as though her conscience were dealing with human virtues and duties.
"And are you satisfied to love things that are not present?" he asked, looking at her with sudden earnestness.
"The Mother Superior will wish him to take away a favorable impression of the convent," said the Sister. "Young ladies are sometimes sent to us from that region." And now, having gotten from Ezra the informa-
