As for "Pansy," it had been the name of one of her
husband's shorthorns, a premium animal at the county fairs; the
silver cup was on the sideboard in the dining room now.
"Yes, Mrs. Meredith," replied Pansy, "that was the name my mother
gave me. I think she must have had a great love of flowers. She
named me for the best she had. I hope I shall never forget that,"
and Pansy looked at Mrs. Meredith with a face of such gravity and
pride that silence lasted in the parlors for a while.
Buried in Pansy's heart was one secret, one sorrow: that her mother
had been poor. Her father wore his yoke ungalled; he loved rough
work, drew his religion from privations, accepted hardship as the
chastening that insures reward. But that her mother's hands should
have been folded and have returned to universal clay without ever
having fondled the finer things of life--this to Pansy was
remembrance to start tears on the brightest day.
"I think she named you beautifully," said Mrs. Meredith, breaking
that silence, "and I am glad you told me, Pansy." She lingered with
quick approval on the name.
But she turned the conversation at once to less personal channels.
The beauty of the country at this season seemed to offer her an
inoffensive escape. She felt that she could handle it at least
with tolerable discretion. She realized that she was not deep on
the subject, but she did feel fluent.
"I suppose you take the same pride that we all do in such a
beautiful country.
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