Remembrance.

Always, when I see foxgloves, I think of the L.'s.

Again I pass in front of their cottage, and in the window—between the daffodil curtains with the green spots—there are the great, sumptuous blooms.

“And how beautiful they are against the whitewash!” cry the L.'s.

As is their custom, when they love anything, they make a sort of Festa. With foxgloves everywhere. And then they sit in the middle of them, like blissful prisoners, dining in an encampment of Indian Braves.

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