Mr. Winton and the squaw
were waiting, while the florist was smiling in gratification, but the
Minturns went to the flowers without a word. They simply stood and looked.
Each of the baskets was in perfect condition. The flowers were as fresh as
at home in the swamp. Each was a thing of wondrous beauty. Each deserved
the mute tribute it was exacting. Mrs. Minturn studied them with gradually
darkening face. Mrs. Minturn repeatedly opened her lips as if she would
speak, but did not. She stepped closer and gently turned the flowers and
lightly touched the petals.
"Beautiful!" she said at last. "Beautiful!"
Another long silence.
Then: "_Honestly Leslie, did you hear a bird sing that strain from
Martha?_"
"Yes!" said Leslie, "I did. And if you will go with me to the swamp where
those flowers came from, you shall hear one sing a strain that will
instantly remind you of the opening chorus, while another renders Di
Provenza Il Mar from Traviata."
The lady turned again to the flowers. She was thinking something deep and
absorbing, but no one could have guessed exactly what it might be.
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