A little fear
and annoyance came into her face. "You a North-country woman, Ducie,"
she said, "and yet going to bring snowdrops across the doorstone? I
would not have believed such a thing of you. Leave them outside the
porch. Be said, now."
"It seems such a thing to think of flowers that way,--making them signs
of sorrow."
"You know what you said about your father and the
plant,--'Death-come-quickly.' I have heard snowdrops called 'flowers
from dead-men's dale.' Look at them. They are like a shrouded corpse.
They keep their heads always turned down to the grave. It is ill-luck to
bring them where there is life and love and warmth. It will do you no
harm to mind me; so be said, Ducie. Besides, I wouldn't pull them
anyway. There was little Grace Lewthwaite, she was always gathering the
poor, innocent flowers just to fling them on the dusty road to be
trodden and trampled to pieces; well, before she was twelve years old,
she faded away too. Perhaps even the prayers of mangled flowers may be
heard by the merciful Creator."
"You do give me such turns, Charlotte." But who ever reasons with a
superstition? Ducie simply obeyed Charlotte's wish, and laid the pallid
blooms almost remorsefully back upon the earth from which she had taken
them. A strange melancholy filled her heart; although the servants were
busy all around, and everywhere she heard the good-natured laugh, the
thoughtless whistle, or the songs of hearts at ease.
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