"And many read them, through fond suspicion, wrong," replied Rose.
"Well—yes—that may be." He spoke in partial abstraction, yet doubtfully.
"I must look through your garden," said the young lady, rising; "you know how I love flowers."
"Not much yet to hold your admiration," replied Mr. Delancy, rising also. "June gives us wide green carpets and magnificent draperies of the same deep color, but her red and golden broideries are few; it is the hand of July that throws them in with rich profusion."
"But June flowers are sweetest and dearest—tender nurslings of the summer, first-born of her love," said Rose, as they stepped out into the portico. "It may be that the eye gets sated with beauty, as nature grows lavish of her gifts; but the first white and red petals that unfold themselves have a more delicate perfume—seem made of purer elements and more wonderful in perfection—than their later sisters. Is it not so?"
"If it only appears so it is all the same as if real," replied Mr. Delancy, smiling.
"How?"
"It is real to you. What more could you have? Not more enjoyment of summer's gifts of beauty and sweetness."
"No; perhaps not."
Rose let her eyes fall to the ground, and remained silent.