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Rh “Of course!” cried Florimel. “You’ll discover some old weed, or something, in botany, and make your mark! But I’d love to call you Moses.”

“You may, Pharaoh’s daughter. I don’t mind. But I can’t crave to be called that by every one,” said Mark, and turned back at the foot of the stairs to put out his hand to Mary. “Even if I am going to see you again this evening, and nearly every day, I believe the time to thank you is when I start out on my own hook. I can’t do it,” he said. “You’ve been no end good to me, and if I didn’t know that so well, I could say it better.”

“Please never say it nor think it,” said Mary. “You came along and the rest of it followed you. It did itself. I love to believe everything flows along, like little waves, one after another!—planned for us, you know.”

“Good-bye, Mary Garden. I’d like any plan that had you in it,” said Mark hurriedly, as if he hated to say it.

“Mark is nice; he’s gone, Jane,” said Mary, coming in to where Jane was busily writing the wall paper firm about the paper.

“Where has he gone?” asked Jane absently, and they both laughed. “You can’t expect me