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It was beyond Una to resist flowers at her feet.

She stooped to pick them up. Was there a nettle among them? Something stung her. Stung sharply!

She was about to rub the prickling fingers across her lips, but with some thought of the poisonous weeds which, as a Camp Fire Girl she had come to know, she chafed them against her skirt—her sweater cuff—instead.

But there seemed to be no poisoner in all the innocent little bunch that rested its cheek so trustfully against her tan shoe.

Was it the tear in the violet’s eye that warned her? Was it the averted face of the drowsy dandelion, still, in the woods, half asleep? Was—oh! was there the faintest whiff about them that was not natural?

Suddenly all the daylight fled out through the tops of the trees, as it were.

And, spurning for the first time a flower, Una turned and fled with it, sobbing, tripping, stumbling, out of the wood—the intoning wood.

She reached the low, stone wall, breathless, wild-eyed.

“Preserve us a’! lassie, what’s happened to ye, the morning? Ye look ‘beglammered.’ Ye look scared; ye look sparrow-blastit.”