“What do you see?” demanded Katherine, in surprise, and facing her suddenly.

“Why!  Why, this beautiful Katherine—­Mermet is refractory; she—­it won’t stand up in the vase; it has a crooked stem, lops over dejectedly and needs doctoring,” Sadie observed, demurely, as she held the flower up to view.  “But”—­with ’a sly smile—­“I reckon a little skillful surgery will straighten it out.  Yes, Dr. Stanley was there—­up in the north corner, almost behind that great post.  How strange you didn’t see him!”

“I didn’t try to find anybody; I didn’t care to know where anybody sat, at least until after I had read my essay; and then, you know, it was almost over,” explained Katherine, turning away again, but not before her friend had noticed that the color was now all gone from her face.

She nodded her head wisely once or twice.

“He didn’t send any flowers,” she mentally observed.  “Those Jacks are mine; the mixed bouquet is from the Minturns, and I saw Dorrie give the usher those Daybreak pinks.  Well, it is queer.  I wonder what it means?”

“There!” she remarked, aloud, “I’ve done the best I can with my avalanche of sweetness; now give me yours, honey, and I will put them in this jardiniere.  But what will you save out to wear with your reception gown to-night?” she asked, as she took the flowers from Katherine.

“I—­don’t know, Sadie; I believe I won’t make any change—­I’ll go just as I am,” was the dejected reply as the girl sank wearily into a chair.

“Go just as you are! not make any change!  Well, now, Miss Minturn, that really ‘jars’ me; with that perfectly killing pink liberty gauze, made over pink silk, all ready to slip on, and which just makes me green with envy to look at,” Sadie exclaimed, in a tone of mock consternation, although, as she told her later, she was “dying to shriek with laughter.”  “What is the matter, honey?” she added, softly, the next moment.

“Matter?” repeated Katherine, trying to look unconscious.

“Yes; are you tired?”

“Well—­it has been a pretty busy day, you know,” and a half-repressed sigh seemed to indicate weariness.

“Who is that, I wonder?” remarked Miss Minot, as some one knocked for admittance.  “Come in.”

The door opened and a maid put her head inside.

“A box for Miss Minturn,” she said, briefly.

Katherine sprang forward to take it and a strange tremor seized her as she severed the twine, removed the wrapper and lifted the cover.

Then the rich color flooded cheek and brow as she saw a small but exquisite spray bouquet of white moss rosebuds lying upon a bed of moist cotton, and, beside them, a card bearing the name, “Phillip Harris Stanley.”

“Sadie!  Did you ever see anything so lovely?” she cried, holding it out for her friend to admire, and trying not to look too happy.

“‘Lovely’ doesn’t half express it,” returned the girl, glancing from the waxen buds to the radiant face bending above them.  “Ahem!  Who sent ’em?”