Far away in a distant city, a man, carelessly looking among some papers,
"Wife, did you ever send me these?"
She raised her great, black eyes to his with a gesture of ineffable disdain, and replied languidly:
"You know very well I can't bear flowers. How could I ever send such sentimental trash to anyone? Throw them into the fire."
And the Easter bells chimed a solemn requiem as the flames slowly licked up the faded violets. Was it merely fancy on the wife's part, or did the husband really sigh,--a long, quivering breath of remembrance?