"'Sybel, dear,' I said helplessly, 'she has them all now.'
"'Now!' cried Sybel, in the most fearful accents of despair. 'What good is it now? Ten thousand roses strewn about her now are not worth the one gathered by her own little hand when she wanted it, which would have given her pleasure then. Too late! Too late! Oh, God, the wheels of time! Will they never move backward? Shall I never hear again my baby's voice saying, "Mummie, may I pick one of your roses?" Oh, baby, speak to poor mummie and say you know you may have them all!'
"But the little angel-face was calmly unresponsive, and the tiny marble hands so lightly clasped the rose stems that when the mother's desperate weeping shook the bed, the roses those baby hands seemed holding, dropped from them and fell, unheeded.
"Ah, poor breaking heart! Love's offering came too late."
The baby's godmother still kept her eyes on her folded hands. The doctor's wife was crying softly.
"Oh, Flower," the deep, sad voice went on, "we are all apt to make the same terrible mistake. When our dear ones have passed beyond all ken of earthly pleasures, we send our costly wreaths of rarest flowers, striving thus to atone for having denied them the one simple blossom which was all they asked and needed. Let us learn to give our flowers now—now while they can hold them and have them; now, while they can scent their perfume and enjoy their beauty. Oh, child, give Deryck his white rose while he asks it of you. A man requires the instant fulfillment of his heart's desires. We women can wait. Some of us enjoy the idea of waiting even for the wreaths and crosses, though we shall not be there to see them. The morbid picturesqueness of the idea appeals to us; but a man wants nothing for his cold clay save six feet of honest earth. His needs are stronger, simpler, more intense than ours. And what he needs, he needs now. When the battle is over and won, he will leave the old suit of armor behind and forge ahead to pastures new. Stand by him now, in the din, the dust, and the heat, with the cup of cold water he craves. And oh, remember, the wheels of time go forward, always; backward, never. I want you to be spared the agony of vain regret."
The baby's godmother ceased speaking and looked up. The lines were hard and stern about her mouth and eyes, but the eyes themselves were soft and infinitely tender.
Flower rose and, stooping, kissed her gently.
"I wish he had proposed to you," she said; "you would have done better for him. But as it was I he wanted, I must do my best, and I will go to Brighton."
Then slowly, with bent head, she left the room.