art, as she puttered over her flowers with her protegé beside her, might leave only a memory of a very active blue-and-white-checked gingham sunbonnet, but a glance within would have disclosed a face which in sweetness challenged any blossoms the garden produced. The sparkle still remained in Mrs. Stewart's eye, a smile was ever on her lips. Before Lola left home for her war-work, friends spoke of her as a younger replica of her mother, but since her return the girl seemed the elder of the two.

At first Barry was half ashamed of his new occupation, and Lola observed him carefully as he passed through this phase.

"Think of me shootin' bugs off plants, Miss Lola, instead of big game up Wind River or Boches in France," he said to her one day; but under Mrs. Stewart's skilful guidance Barry eagerly absorbed the subtle message which flowers express to understanding souls. His life in Wyoming, with Nature as his sole companion, fitted him to comprehend, for the language of the flowers is the same as the language of the forests and the hills.

At first a flower was a flower to Barry, the only difference lying in its shape, color, or fragrance; but Mrs. Stewart took pains to weave romance in with the horticultural knowledge taught him by the old gardener. Starting in with the Spring, Barry, with his sympathetic guide, welcomed the drooping snow-drops, the daffodils, and the timid crocuses. The Winter had been a trial to him, not only for the limitations it placed upon his physical activities, but because it was the period of unhappy experimentation, now fortunately

ended by Mrs. Stewart's inspiration. These first blooms seemed to Barry the harbingers of a new life, but his discouragement had been so long extended that he was fearful to accept anything as a fact. Mrs. Stewart sensed this, and she gave him Holmes's little poem to read:

"When wake the violets, Winter dies;

When sprout the elm buds, Spring is near;
When lilacs blossom, Summer cries,

'Bud, little roses, Spring is here!''

From that time on Barry associated his own life with the lives of the flowers, and watched eagerly for the violets and the sprouting of the elm buds. Seeing his interest, Mrs. Stewart taught him the symbolism of the flowers, and gave him other volumes from which to learn their story. Lola, feeling her responsibility keenly, was at first worried by the light showing late at night in Barry's quarters, watching it from the window of her own chamber. When she spoke to him about it, cautioning him that until his full strength returned his rest was all-important, Barry plunged quickly into his room and returned with an armful of books.

"Look, Miss Lola!" he exclaimed excitedly. "Mis' Stewart has let me take all these, and I'm readin' 'em through. I never was much on readin' before the war, but you know how we had to do somethin' there to kill time. They were short of books, so one day the library lady tore one of 'em up, and divided it among us. It was written by a highbrow cuss named Carlyle. Think

of me readin' that stuff! But I had to do somethin,' and say... that feller had some real ideas. I can remember some of 'em now; 'What have you done, you son of a gun?' he says. "If you've got happiness or unhappiness, why that's only just your wages, and you've spent that in payin' for your chow, you've eaten it all up by this time. Now how about your work? Be quick and trot it out. really done! . . Those aren't the exact words, Miss Lola, but the idea is somethin' like that."

Lets' see what you've

Barry's quotation was not clear to Lola, but later, in her father's library, her search was rewarded: "Happiness, unhappiness; all that was but the wages thou hadst; thou hast spent all that in sustaining thyself hitherward; not a coin of it remains with thee, it is all spent, eaten; and now thy work, where is thy work? Swift, out with it; let us see thy work."

Thomas Carlyle would have rejoiced in the practical application of his immortal message!

Lola watched the new light in Barry's eyes, and her thoughts instinctively went back to those hopeless days in the hospital when she struggled to give him an interest in life.

"You had forgotten that when you didn't want us to pull you through," she reminded him.

"How could I forget somethin' I never knew before?" Barry asked sheepishly. "I didn't even get that feller's idea 'til I came here. What had I done anyhow? Just shot pelts for the market, sold 'em, and got my wages. Then I ate the wages up, just as that feller said. Now

I'm really doin' somethin' more. those books to read, . . and say

Your mother gave me

every flower has a story of its own, just like a person. Remember how the kids used to tramp down this garden? They don't do it now, do they? I caught a couple of 'em and they thought they were in for a lickin', but I took 'em right up to the violet-bed, and I says, "See what you've done. Those little flowers have life just as much as me or you.' Then I told 'em the story about how Jupiter made the violet to feed to the girl his wife got jealous of and changed into a cow, and they were sure interested. Now they come 'round every day askin' me to tell 'em stories, and I have to read these books your mother gives me to keep ahead of 'em."

Barry's eyes twinkled as he paused for a moment. "You ought to see those little devils weed the garden while I tell 'em stories about the flowers!"

III

So the blooms in the garden succeeded one another in the rotation which Nature ordains, but the bloom in Barry's heart became perennial, crowding out the bitter memories of severed limb, unintelligent governmental paternalism, and a hopeless future. Barry O'Carolan became a Norcross institution. Whenever he would admit the children to the garden they flocked about him; when he limped to the post-office they flanked him on either side, and Barry thoroughly enjoyed their companionship. Life for him settled down into a satisfying minor key in which all the chords were harmoniIf he was aware of the struggle in the heart of

ous.

his benefactress, he gave no evidence of it; if Richard Norton's restlessness was still obsessive, Barry seemed blissfully unconscious of it. The autocratic old man in the great house on the Hill might be breaking his heart over his son's rebellion and the arrogance of his men; the workmen in the Norton factory might be seething with discontent and plotting mischief, . . but Barry O'Carolan, once hunter of big game on the slopes of the Rockies, now hunted contentment and philosophy among the gentle flowers which were his daily companions, and in the "highbrow" poems which great writers had composed to the glory of his new-found friends.