P was only a faded flower. Only a wild rose and a leaf,
crushed, faded, and dry, that slipped from the half-turned
page and fell upon the floor. And yet how quickly and how
tenderly he stooped down and picked it up. Why did he do
it? He could hardly have told himself, unless it was because
he dropped it—that was all.
Sunday afternoon, and such a lovely one. Truly it was
yet Winter, for but yesterday there was snow in the air and
a cold, boisterous wind seeking entrance at the door. But
to-day all was changed. And as he sat in his study, with
the window thrown wide open and the warm sun shining
thro', it surely seemed to him that it must be Spring. And
he half expected to hear the song of a robin, or catch the
fragrant odor of the trailing arbutus. But the birds were
in the Southland and the flowers: still asleep, the springtime
far away. And yet how warm the sun shone! The air, how
quiet and serene! Everything so hushed and still! Perhaps,
yes it must be, that the boisterous wintry elements had hushed
themselves in fear lest they awaken nature from her sleep
and pleasant dreams.
Yea, what a pleasant day withal, and yet so sad and lonely
too. He was tempted to go outdoors to find companionship.
But the harsh voices of a flock of crows flying past deterred
him, and he turned to his much loved books to find expression
for his pent-up feelings and sympathy With his mood.
Picking up a volume of quotations and opening the
book at random; he read a bit of prose now here, a bit
of verse now there—perhaps a line, perhaps a page
of what he almost knew by heart. And yet each line
was so full of hidden meaning and suggestion, that in