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"
Mr. Winton still turned the basket.
"I've bought their stuff for years, because neither Leslie nor her mother
ever would tolerate fat carnations and overgrown roses so long as I could
find a scrap of arbutus, a violet or a wake-robin from the woods. We've
often motored up and penetrated the swamp I fancy these came from, for
some distance, but later in the season; it's so very boggy now. Aren't
these rather wonderful?" He turned to his daughter.
"Perfectly, Daddy," she said. "Perfectly!"
"But I don't mean for the Creator," explained Mr. Winton. "I am accustomed
to His miracles. Every day I see a number of them. I mean for the squaw."
"I'd have to know the squaw and understand her viewpoint," said Leslie.
"She had it in her tightly clenched fist," laughed Douglas. "One, I'm
sure; anyway, not over two."
"That hasn't a thing to do with the _art_ with which she made the basket
and filled it with just three perfect plants," said Leslie.
"You think there is real art in her anatomy?" queried Mr.


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