A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded."
—Byron.
On the veranda of a lordly mansion over-looking a velvety lawn of emerald green, spangled with flowers and dotted here and there with giant oaks, magnolias and orange trees, between which might be caught the silvery gleam of the bright waters of a lakelet beyond, a young child, a lovely little girl of four, was sporting with her nurse: tossing to and fro a many-colored ball with many a sweet baby laugh and shout.
Presently it flew over the railing and rolled away among the flowers in the grass.
"Let's go get it, mammy," said the little one, hurrying down the steps; "let' stoss it on the lawn."
"Wait, honey," returned the nurse, following her. "Ki! let ole mammy hol' you up to see what's comin' down dar on de wattah."
"Oh, the boat, the boat!" shouted the child, as Aunt Chloe lifted her to her shoulder. "Will it stop, mammy? Is uncle comin' on it?"
"Dunno, darlin'; 'spect he is," Aunt Chloe answered moving on across the lawn in the direction of the little pier where the boat was already rounding to. "Ki! yes, dar he am, standin' on de deck."
The child clapped her pretty hands with a cry of delight. "I see him! I see him! Please go on, mammy. Now let me down. I want to run to meet him."
A man was stepping ashore, gentlemanly in dress and appearance, of medium height, rather stoutly built, sandy hair and whiskers, plentifully sprinkled with grey, a grave, thoughtful face, with stern mouth, but kindly grey eyes.