wild violets, primroses and sprigs of fern was an envelope inscribed with her name.
“It would seem you have an admirer,” her father said. “I remember well the times I left a May Day bouquet at your mother’s door when I was courting.”
Lily set the bouquet on the table and pulled a note from the envelope. Scanning it for a signature, she murmured, “Not an admirer, Papa. A friend.”
Then engrossed in the message, she failed to see a knowing look pass between her father and sister.
In strong masculine handwriting, the words blurred in her vision as she recalled her last conversation with Caleb at her mother’s grave.
If when thy thoughts to gloom do fly
And sorrow seeks thy soul to cloy,
Mayhap these blooms may still thy sigh
And serve as harbingers of joy.
A friend
“Well?” her father studied her inquiringly.
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