The
flowers will never let any real harm come, though they do look so
indifferent and smiling sometimes, and though not one of them hung their
heads when his coffin was carried through them yesterday."
That want of sympathy in the flower troubled her.
The old man had loved them so well; and they had all looked as glad as
ever, and had laughed saucily in the sun, and not even a rosebud turned
the paler as the poor still stiffened limbs went by in the wooden shell.
"I suppose God cares; but I wish they did." said Bebee, to whom the
garden was more intelligible than Providence.
"Why do you not care?" she asked the pinks, shaking the raindrops off
their curled rosy petals.
The pinks leaned lazily against their sticks, and seemed to say, "Why
should we care for anything, unless a slug be eating us?--_that_ is
real woe, if you like."
Bebee, without her sabots on, wandered thoughtfully among the sweet wet
sunlightened labyrinths of blossom, her pretty bare feet treading the
narrow grassy paths with pleasure in their coolness.
"He was so good to you!" she said reproachfully to the great gaudy
gillyflowers and the painted sweet-peas.
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