"And you, Anna?"
"An aloe, Aaron."
He smiled the least in the world, and said,—
"Had I been asked, instead of being the asker, I should have made answer, 'She's a Japan rose.'"
"Oh, Aaron, no fragrance! that's not complimentary."
"Crush the leaves of heliotrope in the cup, Anna."
I did not understand what he meant, then; perhaps I do not now: some figure of speech from the Orient, I fancy, with a glow of meaning about it visible only to poetic vision. I lost my way, blinded in seeking to penetrate the mystery, and was brought back to Redleaf by two welcome events: the cup Chloe brought, and the letter Aaron gave, with a beseeching of pardon for having forgotten to give it in the morning.
I read my letter, interluding it with little commas of sipping at the cup. It was from my father, very brief, but somewhat stirring. Here it lies before me now.
"My MYRTLE-VINE,—
"I want you at home. I am well; but that is no reason why I should not need your greenness on my walls. Come home, dear child, on the morrow. Do not fail me. You never have; 't would be cruel now, when spring is coming, the very time of hope. Waitingly,