CHAPTER XXXIII.
An unusually long day's work at the office had fatigued good Mr.Mool.
He pushed aside his papers, and let his weary eyes rest on a glass vase full of flowers on the table--a present from a grateful client.

As a man, he enjoyed the lovely colours of the nosegay.

As a botanist, he lamented the act which had cut the flowers from their parent stems, and doomed them to a premature death.

"I should not have had the heart to do it myself," he thought; "but tastes differ." The office boy came into the room, with a visiting card in his hand.
"I'm going home to dinner," said Mr.Mool.

"The person must call to-morrow." The boy laid the card on the table.