“This is decidedly a rose-year,” said the good Rector approvingly, as he looked at the brilliance around him; “I have never seen such a fine show of flowers. My nightingales should sing their sweetest here, if the tale of their love for the rose be true. Did you ever see such a glow of color, Maurice?
‘Vidi Paestano candere rosaria cultu
Exoriente novo roscida Lucifero.’
But I don’t think the poet saw finer roses than mine, even in Southern Italy.”
“‘Rosa regina florum,’” remarked Maurice, smiling.
“Eh! you match my quotation from Ausonius with a wretched little saying culled from your first Latin reading-book. My dear lad, I am afraid my labor has been in vain, for your Latin is primitive.”
“No doubt it is,” assented Maurice cordially, “but I have not the gift of tongues. I would that I had, as it will be necessary in the East.”
“The East!” repeated Carriston, sitting down under his favorite elm-tree. “What is this? Are you thinking of visiting the cradle of humanity?”
“Yes; the summer is nearly over, so like a swallow I wish to fly south to the blue seas of Greece.”
“‘Tous les ans j’y vais et je niche