way was to plan for her comfort. Wasn't there something big about
his simple cards-on-the-table wooing? And he had called her his
rose, his Rose of Sharon. The new house was to be the garden in
which she should blossom. To be sure, he had said it all
awkwardly, but Rose, who was devout, knew the stately Song of
Solomon and as she recalled the magnificent outburst of passion
she almost let herself be convinced that Martin was a poet-lover
in the rough.

And all the while, giving pattern to her flying thoughts, the
contents of a letter, received the day before, echoed through her
mind. Her sister, Norah, the youngest of the family, had told of
her first baby. "We have named her for you, darling," she wrote.
"Oh, Rose, she has brought me such deep happiness. I wonder if
this ecstasy can last. Her little hand against my breast--it is
so warm and soft--like a flower's curling petal, as delicate and
as beautiful as a butterfly's wing. I never knew until now what
life really meant." As Rose reread the throbbing lines and
pictured the eager-eyed young mother, her own sweet face glowed
with reflected joy and with the knowledge that this ecstasy, this
deeper understanding could come to her, too--Martin, he was
vigorous, so worthy of being the father of her children. He would
love them, of course, and provide for them better than any other
man she knew. Had not Norah married a plain farmer who was only a
tenant? The new little Rose's father was not to be compared to
Martin, and yet he had brought the supreme experience to her
sister. So Rose sat dreaming, the arid level of monotonous days
which, one short hour ago, had stretched before her, flowering
into fragrant, sun-filled fields.