How fair the lily grows,'"

Rosalind chanted dreamily.

Grandmamma had given her the hymn book, telling her to choose a hymn and
commit it to memory, and as she turned the pages this had caught her eye
and pleased her fancy.

"It sounds like the Forest of Arden," she said, leaning back on the garden
bench and shutting her eyes.

"'How sweet the breath beneath the hill
Of Sharon's lovely rose.'"

She swung her foot in time to the rhythm. She was not sure whether a rill
was a fountain or a stream, so she decided, as there was no dictionary
convenient, to think of it as like the creek where it crossed the road at
the foot of Red Hill.

Again she looked at the book; skipping a stanza, she read:--

"'By cool Siloam's shady rill
The lily must decay;
The rose that blooms beneath the hill
Must shortly pass away.'"

The melancholy of this was interesting; at the same time it reminded her
that she was lonely. After repeating, "Must shortly pass away," her eyes
unexpectedly filled with tears.