“I never heard words like these before,” said Kate.
“May I tell you what they are like to me?”
“They are like lightning on a still night, without rain, without thunder. The heavens are open and there is light--that is all. Is there more in that book?”
“A great deal,” answered the young man; and, pointing to the celandines in Kate’s bosom, said, “The poet has something to say about these flowers.”
“They are not buttercups. Take them out from where they are pinned. I will teach you a lesson--how to distinguish sorts.”
As the girl removed the bunch and placed it on the table, he said, “Do you see the petals? The golden leaves of the flower are called petals. They are pointed. Now, remember, a buttercup has rounded petals.”
“You are right, and they come out later. They are more like little drunkards.”
“The large golden cups that grow by the water’s edge--these we call drunkards, but they drink only water.”
“Perhaps so, but it is very different from the marigold of the garden. The leaves”--
Bramber laughed. “Now you are going to teach me to distinguish. You are quite right--that water-drinker is not a marigold at all. But country people give it that name because it is the great golden flower that blooms at or about Lady Day, and the lady is the Virgin Mary. Now consider. The celandine has sharply-pointed petals. Do you see the difference between them and those of the golden water-drinker?”
“He who wrote those verses about the daffodils has written three poems on the celandine.”
“Yes, and very beautiful they are. I will reserve them for another day. You have enough to think about in the lines on the daffodils.”
“How did the man who wrote them know of my illness, and how I dreamed and troubled about the daffodils?”
“He must have done so. He says he was lonely as a cloud, and I am Kitty Alone.”
“They call me so because I have no companions and no friends, and because”--She checked herself and hung her head.
“Yes--my father and Aunt Zerah. But for all that I am alone. They are grown big and old, and so of course cannot understand me--a child. And at school I didn’t have friends. Then the man must have been here, for he says--
‘Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze
