THE TREASURE OF WILD FLOWERS.

The father of that little household was coming. That moment Rhoda heard her father's step on the stairs, the door slowly opened, and a little man came in, carrying a quantity of field flowers in his arms, such as grow brightest in August and September—golden-rod, wild asters, and a feathery white flower, which clings to its stem in soft masses, like snow-flakes caught out of season; with these were some long pointed leaves of the sweet-flag, and a handful of water-rushes.

You need not have asked where the little maiden at the hearth got her activity from, after seeing this man. The whole thing was evident in a minute. She was her father over again in miniature, with a certain practical common-placeness added, which made her seem an old-fashioned copy disguised as a child.

"And so you have got my supper ready?" said the little man, cheerily, laying down his flowers on a chair with gentle caution. "Good girl! good girl! What a dear little grandmother it is! What should you and I do without her, Luke? The flowers are for you, boy. I have had a glorious tramp after them; come home tired as a hound, and bright as a lark. Now for the supper."

Rhoda sat down at the end of the little square table, and began to pour out the tea daintily, like some nice old lady in a fairy tale. Mr. Weeks cut up the steak just as daintily, and was about to hand some of it to his son, when he discovered that Luke had not yet taken his place, but was carrying the flowers off in his arms, and placing them in a great pitcher which he had filled with water.

"Come, Luke," he called out; "now that you have fed the flowers, come and feed yourself."

Luke came to the table with his face in a glow. It was a lovely face, more feminine, almost, than the girl's. His eyes shone, and his lips smiled. The boy's sensitive soul had been, for a blissful moment, among the flowers.

"They are beautiful, father! What rich man gave them to you?"

"Rich man, my boy? Ha! you have never been in the country, or you would know. These are the flowers that God scatters wild along the roads, and in the hollows, for poor people to gather. I might have brought home loads, only there was no way of doing it."

"And you brought them to me? Thank you, father," answered the boy in his gentle gratitude. "For me and Rhoda, I mean?"

"No, no! not for me! I will take some of the beef, father, with a bit of pickle. Let Luke keep all the flowers, I haven't time for them."

"Poor fellow! how he loves them!" said the father; "and never saw them growing. That is hard; I will take him with me some day when I go on a tramp."

Rhoda looked anxious, and laid down her knife and fork with a determined gesture.

"Father, it would kill him to walk so far."

"No, no! I am well now—strong!" cried the boy. "Let me pick them for myself, father."

"So you shall. It is a shame that I have never thought of this before. I might have taken you out often enough."

"He could not leave mother, you know," said Rhoda; "she mourned when he was out of her sight."

Weeks got up hastily, and went into a little bed-room connected with that in which the table was spread. The boy lifted his large eyes, and dropped the lids again, under which Rhoda could see tears swelling. She did not protest, or offer comfort, but gave a little push at her chair, as if this quick sensitiveness in her twin brother troubled her. Then she settled herself again, and called out:

"The chair went to Mrs. Holt safe, father, and she was glad to get it—so glad, it would have done you good."

Weeks came out of the bed-room, with a flush about his eyes.

"And you saw her?"

"Yes, father; she gave me this ribbon, and asked about—about us all so kindly."

"Did she ask after me—particularly, I mean?"

"No, not particularly; that is, in that way."

"Luke," said the father, suddenly, "there is time for a lesson before I go to the theatre; get the violin."

Luke started from his chair, opened a closet, and brought out an old violin, blackened with time, and seasoned, as it were, with ages of music. The two sat down by the window, through which the cool evening wind came softly from the west, and in a few moments the room was full of such low, sweet music as living genius can alone give to any instrument.

Rhoda, who was washing the tea things, paused in her work to listen, and handled the cups daintily, as if afraid of making any noise that might clash with those sweet sounds. Weeks bent over his son, animated, swaying to and fro, with his hand in motion, as if it waved a baton. But the strain grew more plaintive, and so exquisitely sad that even Rhoda held her breath. Weeks let his hand drop, and leaning against the window, listened in mute silence till the sweet wail ceased. Then he started up, took the violin from the boy's hand, almost roughly, and carried it into the next room.

"You'll soon get beyond my teaching," he said, fastening the instrument in its case. "Where in the world did you find that?"

"It came to me this afternoon, when you and Rhoda left me alone with the violin," answered the boy.

"Came to you! Came to you! Why, Luke, I never heard anything like it."

The boy smiled, and his eyes brightened.

"I think it came to me first in dreams," he said, "not altogether, but——Well, father, I cannot say how it is, but the violin seemed to draw the notes out from my heart, where they had been sleeping ever so long."

Weeks made no reply, but put on his hat, tucked the instrument-case lovingly under his arm, and went out humming over the new air to himself.