"Oh!" she cried in dismay, for the flower-seller was wizened and
unsteady of foot, and she had sent him spinning about in a dizzy
fashion. She put out a steadying hand. "Oh . . . !" This time it was
in ecstasy; she had spied the primroses in the basket just as the
sunshine splashed over the edge of the corner building straight down
upon them. Margaret MacLean dropped to one knee and laid her cheek
against them. "The happy things--you can hear them laugh! I want
all--all I can carry." She looked up quizzically at the flower-seller.
"Now how did you ever happen to think of bringing these--to-day?"

A pair of watery old eyes twinkled, thereby becoming amazingly young in
an instant, and he wagged his head mysteriously while he raised a
significant finger. "Sure, wasn't I knowin', an' could I be afther
bringin' anythin' else? But the rest that passes--or stops--will see
naught but yellow flowers in a basket, I'm thinkin'." And the
flower-seller set to shaking his head sorrowfully.

"Perhaps not. There are the children--"

"Aye, the childher; but the most o' them be's gettin' too terrible
wise."

"I know--I know--but mine aren't. I'm going to take my children back
as many as I can carry." She stretched both hands about a mass of
stems--all they could compass. "See"--she held up a giant bunch--"so
much happiness is worth a great deal. Feel in the pocket of my apron
and you will find--gold for gold. It was the only money I had in my
purse. Keep it all, please." With a nod and a smile she left him,
dancing her way back along the still deserted street.