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 stirred by this belated attention, unique moreover in her experience, but she rejected the offer with dignity. As the story was told and retold afterwards at the grocery store, Ambrose gathered that the dahlias had been responsible both for the proposal and for its rejection. Colonel Redwood burned to own this splendid garden and Emma Flummerfelt could not entertain the idea of sharing this honour. Colonel Redwood had retired in some confusion, but as he walked to the station down the dusty, unpaved road, he had been observed to glance back longingly at Emma Flummerfelt's dahlias. It was not known that he had ever looked at Emma Flummerfelt at all.

When Emma Flummerfelt arrived at the age of forty-five, she possessed, or believed that she possessed, all the known varieties of this cultivated Mexican flower. Single dahlias flourished in great profusion, the small pompons in reds and yellows and magenta had a plot to themselves, while the great double blooms, striated and self-colour, many of them as huge as small cabbages, tossed their heads high in the air. Emma Flummerfelt had devoted herself so completely to her hobby for twenty-five years that she lived and breathed only for her blossoms and bulbs. Their care required her