They grow as free and untamed as the rains that water them, and the earth that feeds them, and the sunshine that sweetens hem.

In them is the flavor of mountain mists, and low hung clouds, and shining dew; the odor of moist leaf-mould, and unimpoverished soil; the pleasant tang of the sunshine; and the softer sweetness of the shady nooks where they grow.
In the second gift, I brought you the purity, and the flavor of the mountains." "And to-day"-- she finished simply--"to-day I have brought you the beauty of the hills." "You have brought me more than the strength and purity and beauty of the mountains," exclaimed the painter.

"You have brought me their mystery." She looked at him questioningly.
"In your own beautiful self," he continued sincerely "you have brought me the mystery of these hills.

You are wonderful! I have never known any one like you." She was wholly unconscious of the compliment--if indeed, he meant it as such.

"I suppose I must be different," she returned with just a touch, of sadness in her voice.