"Oh no, I dare say not!" crossly responded Mrs. Bell; her tone plainly implying that she put no faith whatever in any promise of the sort. "They'll make a day of it again, as they did yesterday. Bring me a little warm water in half-an-hour, Rose, and I'll get up."
"Very well, mother."
Rose returned to her tea-cups, and resumed her song; resumed it in very gladness of heart. Ah, could she only have known what this day was designed to bring forth for her before it should finally close, she had sunk down in the blankness of despair! But there was no foreshadowing on her spirit.
"'Twas at the dawn of a summer morn,
My false love hied away;
O'er his shoulder hung the hunter's horn,
And his looks were blithe and gay.
"'Ere the evening dew-drops fall, my love,'
He thus to me, did say,
'I'll be at the garden-gate, my love'—