and I had in mind the dark gray suit with the pockets draggled from the freightage of many books—books that had spoiled more than one day’s fishing sport. “I should advise you, however,” I added, “to mend the pockets first.” But the Sunflower’s face clouded. “N—o,” she said, “the black one.” “The black one!” This explosively, incredulously. “I wear it quite often. I—I intended wearing it to-night.” “You have two better ones, and you know I never liked it, dear,” the Sunflower hurried on. “Besides, it’s shiny—” “Shiny!” “It—it soon will be, which is just the same, and the man is really estimable. He is nice and refined, and I am sure he—” “Has seen better days.” “Yes, and the weather is raw and beastly, and his clothes are threadbare. And you have many suits—” “Five,” I corrected, “counting in the dark gray fishing outfit with the draggled pockets.” “And he has none, no home, nothing—” “Not even a Sunflower,”—putting my arm around her,—“wherefore he is deserving of all things. Give him the black suit, dear—nay, the best one, the very best one. Under high heaven for such lack there must be compensation!” “You ARE a dear!” And the Sunflower moved to the door and looked back alluringly. “You are a PERFECT dear.” And this after seven years, I marvelled, till she was back again, timid and apologetic. “I—I gave him one of your white shirts. He wore a cheap horrid cotton thing, and I knew it would look ridiculous. And then his shoes were so slipshod, I let him have a pair of yours, the old ones with the narrow caps—” “Old ones!” “Well, they pinched horribly, and you know they did.” It was ever thus the Sunflower vindicated things.