"Good-bye." He is holding her hand as though he never means to let her have it again. "That rose," says he, pointing to the flower that had kissed her lips so often. "It is nothing to you, you can pick yourself another, give it to me."
"I can pick you another too, a nice fresh one," says she. "Here," moving towards a glowing bush; "here is a bud worth having."
"Not that one," hastily. "Not one this garden, or any other garden holds, save the one in your hand. It is the only one in the world of roses worth having."
"I hate to give a faded gift," says she, looking at the rose she holds with apparent disfavor.
"Then I shall take it," returns he, with decision. He opens her pretty pink palm, releases the dying rosebud from it and places it triumphantly in his coat.
"You haven't got any manners," says she, but she laughs again as she says it.
"Except bad ones you should add."
"Yes, I forgot that. A point lost. Good-bye now, good-bye indeed."
She waves her hand lightly to him and calling to the children runs towards the house. It seems as if she has carried all the beauty and brightness and sweetness of the day with her.
As Dysart turns back again, the afternoon appears grey and gloomy.