CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
WHITE ROSES.
It was two months later. In the little garden that lay on the side of the big, rambling house at Larchmont where the sun best loved to dwell, roses were in bloom; and roses, even as the sun, seemed to love that garden. They clustered, great masses of glowing white, against the latticed arbor—they caught playfully at one's hat as one would walk through the gate that led to the broad green lawn, and to the Sound beyond—they snatched at one's clothing as one would walk past the largest bush—the one that stretched its branches across the French window. It was a real garden—an out-of-door home—a garden in which one might live, and in which one might be glad that one was alive.
At one side of a tiny writing table set upon the thick, carpet-like sward, sat the mother, pen in hand, before her a half-finished letter. Across from her the child pressed strong white teeth into the yielding wood of her pencil; and before her, too, was a half-written letter—a sprawling, uncertain letter of childhood.
At length the child looked up. She could see that her mother was not writing; so if she spoke, she would not be interrupting.
"Mother, dear?"
"Yes, honey?"
"How do you spell love?"
"Don't you know, dearie?"
The child shook her head.