OF THE FOREST. 69

“Cunning!” she repeated; “ah, father
Raffré, that is an ugly word; do not call me
cunning. I would rather wear a wreath of
asphodel than be called a cunning girl.”

“And why not wear a wreath of asphodel ?”

“Because it is bitter, very bitter,” she
replied; “but,” continued she, “was there
any harm in thinking of a flower, and not
mentioning it lest it should be chosen? I
would not be cunning, indeed I would not, for
the whole world; and I have no pretensions
to that crown of myrtle which the lady is to
bestow, indeed I have not: but I wish for my
favourite flower for a very particular reason.”

“What might be that very particular rea-
son?” I asked.

“J will give you my reason, father,” she
answered, “when you have seen my favourite
flower: but I must tell you that the dis-
course you made to us about a fortnight
since was what Jed me to think of these
things; and then I remembered a hymn
which I had learned when I lived at my
happy home, and some things which my dear
papa taught me when I was a very little child,
and I put all these things together ; and when
T heard of the feast of the flowers, I then fixed