box of flowers, and every year P'tite Louison send him a. ‘Merci, Charles, mille fois. Dieu te garde.' It is so every year for twenty-five year."
"Where is he now?" asked MedalHon.
Isidore shook his head, then lifted his eyes religiously. "Waiting for Judgment Day and P'tite Louison," he answered.
"Dead!" cried Medallion. "How long?"
"Twenty year."
"But the flowers—the flowers?"
"He left word for them to be sent just the same, and the money for it."
Medallion turned and took off his hat reverently as if a soul were passing from the world, but it was only P'tite Louison going out into the garden.
"She thinks him living?" he asked gently as he watched Louison.
"Yes; we have no heart to tell her. And then he wish it so. And the flowers kep' coming."
"Why did he wish it so?"
Isidore mused a while.
"Who can tell? Perhaps a whim. He was a great actor—ah, yes, sublime!" he said.
Medallion did not reply, but walked slowly down to where P'tite Louison was picking berries. His hat was still off.
"Let me help you. Mademoiselle," he said softly. And henceforth he was as foolish as her brothers.
