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down his lapstone.
    “I’ll fetch ’em right this instant, sir! And be back as quick as —”
    “Back to your pounding!” Mr. Quince aimed his pipe at Nicholas. “You’ll do no more expeditioning about until you’ve finished a full day’s work!”
    Reluctantly, Nicholas returned to his leather. He longed for a chance to pick some verbena, present it to an awestruck Juliana, and arrange to meet the next night at the ball. Contemplating this course of action, he waxed a shoe, mixed lamp soot and egg white, blacked two boots, warmed glue for his master, was instructed in the art of carving a last, was told the grim tale of a daydreaming apprentice whose last was too small and whose shoes were too tight and whose unspeakable end might serve as a warning, and finally was released out the door, with money for candles in his pocket.
    He hurried down the walk, then stopped. He knew there were candles at Miss Stubbin’s shop. But where could he find what was more important — a bouquet of verbena for Juliana?
    Frantically, Nicholas glanced about. And suddenly it occurred to him that verbena might not grow in Charleston or might be only exceedingly rare. It could take him days to find some, or weeks, unless he chanced to search the right spot. Disheartened, he turned a circle in the street, wondering which point of the compass to follow. Then something caught the apprentice’s eye and he tilted his gaze to the copper image of Saint Crispin, whose hammer glinted in the sun — and at once he knew where to point his feet.
    After all, Saint Crispin watched over him. Mr. Quince himself had told him so. It could therefore hardly be accidental that among the eagles and angels and roosters and the rest of the mixed flock of weathervanes only Saint Crispin faced north at the moment. On the contrary, he reasoned, the meaning was clear. The saint knew where verbena grew and was showing him the way.
    Nicholas squeezed the nutmeg in his pocket and set off in line with Saint Crispin’s hammer. He scanned every window box he passed. He surveyed every yard and every garden, and drew up beside an iron fence. On the other side he spied violet flowers. Squatting down to inspect them more closely, he remembered the description he’d read of verbena, stuck his nose between the bars, and all of a sudden drew back. The petals were the proper color, but the leaves were broad, not thin like verbena’s, and Nicholas quickly moved on down the street, dreading to think of presenting the wrong flower and inadvertently shouting out some blasphemy in the language of petals.
    Block after block he walked along, while the afternoon shadows stretched out toward the east. Sighing, he turned and sighted Saint Crispin, continued on, and then stopped.
    He got down on his knees and studied a clump of flowers growing beside a brick walk. The petals were violet, five to the flower. The stems were hairy. The leaves were toothed. In wonder, Nicholas realized he was staring at verbena.
    Stealthily, he looked around, dug out his jackknife, and cut four stalks. Then he sprang to his feet and turned a corner, muttering thanks to his patron saint.
    Grinning, he darted down the street. He stopped at Miss Stubbin’s shop for candles, then struck out toward Miss Catchfly’s grocery. Picturing the potent effect his bouquet would have on Juliana, the apprentice spotted the shop just ahead and anxiously hurried his steps. He smiled to think of the girl’s surprise, cleared his throat, put his hand on the door latch, pressed down his thumb — and found the door stuck. He jiggled the latch. Then he raced to his right, peered through a window, and realized that the shop was closed.
    Stunned, he glanced at the sinking sun. He’d hardly noticed the lateness of the hour. And with a holiday on the following day, Miss Catchfly had no doubt closed up early.
    Nicholas cast a last look through the window, then moved down the street at a despondent pace. The shop, he knew, would