"It sounds like the wind a-blowin' through white clovah, doesn't it ?" "It is a beautiful name to me, my child," answered the old man, laying his hand tenderly on her soft hair, "but not so beautiful as the woman who bore it.

She was the fairest flower of all Kentucky.

There never was another lived as sweet and gentle as your Grandmother Amanthis." He stroked her hair absently, and gazed into the fire.

He scarcely noticed when she slipped away from him.
She buried her face a moment in the bowl of pink roses.

Then she went to the window and drew back the curtain.