After sundown one night Pearl’s resolve was carried into action. She picked a shoe-box full of poppies, wrapping the stems carefully in wet newspaper. She put the cover on, and wrapped the box neatly.

Then she wrote the address. She wrote it painfully, laboriously, in round blocky letters. Pearl always put her tongue out when she was doing anything that required minute attention. She was so anxious to have the address just right that her tongue was almost around to her ear. The address read:

Miss Polly Bragg, english gurl and sick with fever Brandon Hospittle Brandon.

Then she drew a design around it. Jimmy’s teacher had made them once in Jimmy’s scribbler, just beautiful. She was sorry she could not do a bird with a long strip of tape in his mouth with “Think of Me” or “From a Friend” or “Love the Giver” on it. Ma knew a man once who could do them, quick as wink. He died a drunkard with delirium trimmings, but was terrible smart.

Then she stuck, under the string, a letter she had written to Camilla. Camilla would get them sent to Polly.

“I know how to get them sent to Camilla too, you bet,” she murmured. “There are two ways, both good ones, too. Jim Russell is one way. Jim knows what flowers are to folks.”

She crept softly down the stairs. Mrs Motherwell had left the kitchen and no one was about. The men were all down at the barn.

She turned around the cookhouse where the poppies stood straight and strong against the glowing sky. A little single red one with white edges swayed gently on its slender stem and seemed to beckon to her with pleading insistence. She hurried past them, fearing that she would be seen, but looking back the little poppy was still nodding and pleading.

“And so ye can go, ye sweetheart,” she whispered. “I know what ye want.” She came back for it.

“Just like Danny would be honin’ to come, if it was me,” she murmured with a sudden blur of homesickness.

Through the pasture she flew with the speed of a deer. The tall sunflowers along the fence seemed to throw a light in the gathering gloom.

A night hawk circled in the air above her, and a clumsy bat came bumping through the dusk as she crossed the creek just below Jim’s shanty.

Bottles, Jim’s dog, jumped up and barked, at which Jim himself came to the door.

“Come back, Bottles,” he called to the dog. “How will I ever get into society if you treat callers that way, and a lady, too! Dear, dear, is my tie on straight? Oh, is that you Pearl? Come right in, I am glad to see you.”

Over the door of Jim’s little house the words “Happy Home” were printed in large letters and just above the one little window another sign boldly and hospitably announced “Hot Meals at all Hours.”

Pearl stopped at the door. “No, Jim,” she said, “it’s not visitin’ I am, but I will go in for a minute, for I must put this flower in the box. Can ye go to town, Jim, in a hurry?”

“I can,” Jim replied.

“I mean now, this very minute, slappet-bang!”

Jim started for the door.

“Howld on, Jim!” Pearl cried, “don’t you want to hear what ye’r goin’ for? Take this box to Camilla-Camilla E. Rose at Mrs. Francis’s-and she’ll do the rest. It’s flowers for poor Polly, sick and dyin’ maybe with the fever. But dead or alive, flowers are all right for folks, ain’t they, Jim? The train goes at ten o’clock. Can ye do it, Jim?”

Jim was brushing his hair with one hand and reaching for his coat with the other.

“Here’s the money to pay for the ride on the cars,” Pearl said, reaching out five of her coins.

Jim waved his hand.

“That’s my share of it,” he said, pulling his cap down on his head. “You see, you do the first part, then me, then Camilla-just like the fiery cross.” He was half way to the stable as he spoke.

He threw the saddle on Chiniquy and was soon galloping down the road with the box under his arm.

Camilla came to the door in answer to Jim’s ring.

He handed her the box, and lifting his hat was about to leave without a word, when Camilla noticed the writing.

“From Pearl,” she said eagerly. “How is Pearl? Come in, please, while I read the letter-it may require an answer.”

Camilla wore a shirt-waist suit of brown, and the neatest collar and tie, and Jim suddenly became conscious that his boots were not blackened.

Camilla left him in the hall, while she went into the library and read the contents of the letter to Mr. and Mrs. Francis.

She returned presently and with a pleasant smile said, holding out her hand, “You are Mr. Russell. I am glad to meet you. Tell Pearl the flowers will be sent to-night.”

She opened the door as she spoke, and Jim found himself going down the steps, wondering just how it happened that he had not said one word-he who was usually so ready of speech.

“Well, well,” he said to himself as he untied Chiniquy, “little Jimmy’s lost his tongue, I wonder why?”

All the way home the vision of lovely dark eyes and rippling brown hair with just a hint of red in it, danced before him. Chiniquy, taking advantage of his master’s preoccupation, wandered aimlessly against a barbed wire, taking very good care not to get too close to it himself. Jim came to himself just in time to save his leg from a prod from the spikes.

“Chiniquy, Chiniquy,” he said gravely, “I understand now something of the hatred the French bear your illustrious namesake. But no matter what the man’s sins may have been, surely he did not deserve to have a little flea-bitten, mangey, treacherous, mouse-coloured deceiver like you named for him.”

When Camilla had read Pearl’s letter to Mr. and Mrs. Francis, the latter was all emotion. How splendid of her, so sympathetic, so full of the true inwardness of Christian love, and the sweet message of the poppy, the emblem of sleep, so prophetic of that other sleep that knows no waking! Is it not a pagan thought, that? What tender recollections they will bring the poor sufferer of her far away, happy childhood home!

Mrs. Francis’s face was shining with emotion as she spoke. Then she became dreamy.

“I wonder is her soul attune to the melodies of life, and will she feel the love vibrations of the ether?”

Mr. Francis had noiselessly left the room when Camilla had finished her rapid explanation. He returned with his little valise in his hand.

He stood a moment irresolutely looking, in his helpless dumb way, at his wife, who was so beautifully expounding the message of the flowers.

Camilla handed him the box. She understood.

Mrs. Francis noticed the valise in her husband’s hand.

“How very suddenly you make up your mind, James,” she said. “Are you actually going away on the train to-night? Really James, I believe I shall write a little sketch for our church paper. Pearl’s thoughtfulness has moved me, James. It really has touched me deeply. If you were not so engrossed in business, James, I really believe it would move you; but men are so different from us, Camilla. They are not so soulful. Perhaps it is just as well, but really sometimes, James, I fear you give business too large a place in your life. It is all business, business, business.”

Mrs. Francis opened her desk, and drawing toward her her gold pen and dainty letter paper, began her article.

Camilla followed Mr. Francis into the hall, and helped him to put on his overcoat. She handed him his hat with something like reverence in her manner.

“You are upon the King’s business to-night,” she said, with shining eyes, as she opened the door for him.

He opened his mouth as if to speak, but only waved his hand with an impatient gesture and was gone.