UNFADING FLOWERS
Thirty years ago, a small, bare-footed boy paused to admire the flowers in a well-cultivated garden. The ⟨child⟩ was an orphan, and had already felt how hard was the ⟨orphan’s⟩ lot. The owner of the garden, who was ⟨trimming⟩ a border, noticed the lad, and spoke to him kindly.
"Do you love flowers?" said he.
The boy replied, "Oh, yes. We used to have ⟨beautiful⟩ flowers in our garden."
The man laid down his knife, and gathering a few ⟨flowers⟩ took them to the fence, through the pannels of which ⟨the⟩ boy was looking, and handing them to him, said, as I did so, "Here’s a nice little bunch for you."
A flush went over the child's face as he took the ⟨flowers.⟩ He did not make any reply, but in his large eyes, as lifted them to the face of the man, was an expression thankfulness to be read as plainly as words in a book.
