How strangely that struck her! "Ben, it's perfectly possible that you've been sent by Heaven," she remarked, with a humor which still held gravity in it.
"Me! A good angel?
That'd be a new job for Bent Wade," he replied, with a queer laugh.

"But I reckon I'd try to live up to it." There were small sprigs of golden aspen leaves and crimson oak leaves on the wall above the foot of Wilson's bed.

Beneath them, on pegs, hung a rifle.

And on the window-sill stood a glass jar containing columbines.
They were fresh.

They had just been picked.