Whatever they seemed to be, that they were;
and all that they were was good.
But as Ambrose walked back to the house, he lifted the top of the
basket and could but admit that they did look bare. Might they
not, as a love token, be--unrefined? He crossed to a flower bed,
and, pulling a few rose-geranium leaves, tucked them here and there
about the youngsters.
It was not his intention to present these to Harriet in person: he
had accompanied the cream--he would follow the birds; they should
precede him twenty-four hours and the amative poison would have a
chance to work.
During that forenoon his shining buggy drawn by his roan mare,
herself symbolic of softness, drew up before the entrance of the
Conyers homestead. Ambrose alighted; he lifted the top of the
basket--all was well.
"These pets are for your Miss Harriet," he said to the maid who
answered his ring.
As the maid took the basket through the hall after having watched
him drive away, incredulous as to her senses, she met Mrs. Conyers,
who had entered the hall from a rear veranda.
"Who rang?" she asked; "and what is that?"
The maid delivered her instructions. Mrs. Conyers took the basket
and looked in.
"Have them broiled for my supper," she said with a little click of
the teeth, and handing the basket to the maid, passed on into her
bedroom.
Harriet had been spending the day away from home. She returned
late. The maid met her at the front door and a few moments of
conversation followed.
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