The tiny morrow of the opening rose,
With kindred comment of thy genius viewed,
Might to love’s wisdom eagerly disclose
The mystery of some new beatitude.’
Perhaps you will like my dead trees at first sight.”
“I can hardly fancy that.”
“Oh, you may. The afternoon is the time for the water. The black flies are pretty thick, Rose, eh?”
“They don’t trouble me,” she returned. “I can’t say why. They bite, and that is all.”
“I never could account for the exceptions,” he said. “Ned is tormented by them, and they hardly touch Jack.”
“How curious!”