"'She bent her head in sorrow,
The pretty fragile rose;
She languished for the morrow,
Where light and gladness grows
She languished for a rain drop
To cheer her thirsty heart:
She was so sad and weary;
In joy she had no part.
'As the raindrop to the rosebud,
So is his smile to me;
As——'"
Here Charlotte stopped and blushed. "You know who I mean by the rosebud, and who the raindrop is?"
Joyce laughed merrily.
"Oh, Charlotte, you must not come to me for sympathy. I can't understand such sentiment. You have never spoken to Mr. Bamfylde in your life."
"Not spoken; no, but there is such a thing as the language of eyes. Joyce, you don't understand."
"No, I don't; and I think, Charlotte, it is nonsense to waste your thoughts on Mr. Bamfylde, who probably has never given you a thought in his life."
"I am not so sure about thoughts, dear. However, I see you don't care about it, or my verses, or me."
"Come, Charlotte, don't be silly! Of course I care about you, but I don't think I am poetical or romantic. Indeed, we ought to go downstairs."
"You must go first, and I will follow," said poor Charlotte, putting "The Drooping Rosebud" in her pocket again, with a sigh; and Joyce tripped downstairs alone.
"Well, my little rustic," Miss Falconer said; "come and sit down by me, and tell me the news."