of an inborn loyalty to the absent, was not ill-pleased with the suggestion.
"I don't believe he would mind," said May, as she plunged the beautiful things up to their necks in the water-pitcher; "he has probably forgotten, by this time, that he ever sent them."
And Kenwick, stretched upon the deck of the Urania in the moonlight, after the others had gone below, was, at that very moment, murmuring softly to himself:
"All June I bound the rose in sheaves."
