THE REAL AND THE IDEAL.

"Nobody wants you to do anything, dear," said Rhoda persuasively, "but I have another idea. Trade makes one think, I can tell you; those flowers that father brought home, they are lovely. Suppose we make something of them?"

"Make something? What?"

"Money, to be sure. Lots of flowers are sold every night in front of the theatre—roses and lilies, and all sorts; but I have never seen anything like these. They would take, I'll bet you."

Luke's face brightened; here was something for him to do. He started up with animation.

"I will bring them out and see."

He came back in an instant, carrying the great pitcher crowded full of flowers, which he sat down on the floor. Rhoda folded her arms, turned her head on one side and examined them.

"Baskets, I should say," was her first commentary; "baskets made out of the rushes, with handles, and a little rock-moss—that tells. I've seen it on the stands."

"Let me; I can do that!" exclaimed Luke, with animation; for all the artistic taste sleeping in that delicate nature was aroused. "Pick out the rushes, if that is what you call the round grass. We will try one basket tonight."

Rhoda sat down on the floor happy as a bird. She sorted out the finest rushes, and began to braid them with her nimble fingers, and had full five inches done before her brother commenced. The creature chatted as she worked, and told Luke all that had happened to her in the morning in snatches, until he had a vivid idea of Mrs. Holt's anxious face, her proud poverty, and the danger that menaced her from Mrs. Wheeler, who stood, though they did not know it, in equal danger from her landlord and grocer. At last the green braid was deemed long enough, and was coiled into as pretty a basket as ever was concocted from rushes.

"Now, Luke, comes your turn. I haven't the least idea about mixing the flowers," said Rhoda, holding her basket out by the handle. "Let me see how you do it."

Luke held a quantity of the golden-rod in his hand, weaving the soft spray into what seemed a wreath of yellow snowflakes. This he laid around the edge of the basket, and directly brought the tremulous gold into more vivid life, by an inner wreath of wild asters of that rich purplish blue, which no cultivation can deepen or rival. Then came a tuft of tiny fern-leaves, holding in their centre a handful of flossy white flowers, so delicate that a breath seemed sufficient to blow them away.

"There!" exclaimed the boy, holding up his work in gleeful triumph. "What do you think of that for a beginning?"

"Oh, Luke! it is splendid; and you are so handy and handsome. Isn't work delightful when you really get at it?"

No wonder the girl said that, for the boy was a picture as he sat upon the floor with his legs gathered under him, his jacket off, and the snow-white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, from whence it was partly dropping off one shoulder. In fact, the whole group was a living Murillo, for the tall, wild flowers in the pitcher loomed up a little behind the lad; and the girl, so small, so piquant and sparkling, stood near, with her head on one side, like a canary-bird, wondering if there was seed as well as flowers in the basket which the boy held up.

"It will do; that will take; twenty-five cents would be cheap for it," she said, triumphantly.

Luke lowered the basket to his lap, and a shadow came to his bright, young face. He was thinking how beautiful it was. She, with as good a heart, perhaps, counted the pennies it would bring. This practical common sense chilled the boy, and he turned from the basket with a sigh.

All at once Rhoda clasped her hands with a sudden gesture of dismay.

"Dear me! Who will sell them?" she exclaimed. "Father will never let me go to the theatre. _She_ would not have liked it. It is only men who buy flowers there."

Luke turned white, and his eyes fell. "Did she expect him to go?"

"If you could; if you only could bring yourself to try, dear. Think how nice it would be to have us both putting money into the bank."

Luke got up from the floor, buttoned his shirt at the neck, and put on his jacket, but his face had lost all its animation.

"Don't! Don't look like that, dear! It's nothing when you once begin. Try this once; it's not too late; people are just going in. Only think! four baskets will bring in a dollar!"

Luke put on his cap and tried to smile, but the effort ended in a quiver of the lips, and tears swelled under his eyelids—the thing she asked was torture to the sensitive boy.

"Kiss me before I go," he said, gently.

Rhoda threw her arms around him, and felt that he was shaking from head to foot. This touched her, and she made an effort to draw him into the room again; but he resisted and would go. Was she, his twin sister, to undertake all the work, while he sat idle in the house dreaming of music, and watching the beautiful clouds? if she would not go up to his ideal with him he must help her here, for the needs of this hard working world was a heavy burden on her.

Rhoda went down stairs with him, chatting all the way, and telling him how easy it was to sell pretty things. Matches were different; people had to be watched, and taken in their necessity for them; but flowers struck the fancy at once. She kissed her brother at the door and answered.

"Of course you will," when he faltered out a promise to sell the basket before he came back. So the boy went down stairs, miserably heavy-hearted, and the girl resumed her work about the house, with a vague feeling of self-reproach, as if she had done a very cruel thing in urging the boy forth into the world from which he shrank so painfully.