"Let us go to the graves." "Yes, all right, come." They got no further than the cabin and again sat down near by, Leila carelessly gathering the early golden-rod in her lap as they sat leaning against the cabin logs.
"This is our last walk," she said, arranging the golden plumes.

"There is a white golden-rod; find me another, John." He went away to the back of the cabin and returning threw in her lap a half dozen.

"Old Josiah says the blacks in the South think it is good luck to find the first white golden-rod.

Then, he says, you must have a luck-wish.

What shall it be?
Come--quick now." "Oh, I--don't know.