She related flattering anecdotes.

She drew tearful pictures of Juliana's love for him: and noticing how he seemed to prize his bouquet of flowers, said: 'Do you love them for themselves, or the hand that sent them ?' Evan blushed, for it had been a struggle for him to receive them, as he thought, from Rose in secret.

The flowers lost their value; the song that had arisen out of them, 'Thou livest in my memory,' ceased.

But they came still.

How many degrees from love gratitude may be, I have not reckoned.