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At last she held up a big, pointed, yellow basket.
"Ready!" she said.
"Beautiful!" cried Douglas.
Leslie carefully lined the basket with moss in which the flowers grew,
working the heads between the open spaces she had left. She bent three
twigs, dividing her basket top in exact thirds. One of these she filled
with the whitest, one with stronger, and one with the deepest lavender,
placing the tallest plants in the centre so that the outside ones would
show completely. Then she lifted by the root exquisite showy orchis,
lavender-hooded, white-lipped, the tiniest plants she could select and set
them around the edge. She bedded the moss-wrapped roots in the basket and
began bordering the rim and entwining the handle with a delicate vine. She
looked up at Douglas, her face thrilled with triumph, flushed with
exertion, her eyes humid with feeling, while he gazed at her stirred to
the depth of his heart with sympathy and the wonder of possession.
"'Bearer of Morning,' you win!" he cried triumphantly.


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