come and I've never seen her. I first knew of her the very day
you asked me to marry you. I've thought of her, often and often.
Her mother named her after me and calls her 'Little Rose of
Sharon, Illinois'."

"Another rag-weed, probably," said Martin, shortly. Yet, to his
own surprise, he was not altogether sorry she was to come--this
house of his had never had a child in it for more than a few
hours. He was rather curious to find out how it would seem. If
only her name were not Rose, and if only she were not coming from
Sharon.

But little Rose, with her dark brown curls, merry expression,
roguish nose and soft radiance swept all his misgivings and
prejudices before her. One might as well hold grudges against a
flower, he thought. He liked the confiding way she had of
suddenly slipping her little hand into his great one. Her prattle
amused him, and he was both flattered and worried by the
fearlessness with which she followed him everywhere. She seemed
to bring a veritable shower of song into this home of long
silences. The very chaos made Mrs. Wade's heart beat
tumultuously, and once when Martin came upon the little girl
seated solemnly in the midst of a circle of corncob dolls, his
throat contracted with an extraordinary tightness.

"You really are a rose--a lovely, sweet brown Rose of Sharon," he
had exclaimed, forgetting his wife's presence and not stopping to
think how strange the words must sound on his lips. "If you'll
give me a kiss, I'll let you ride on old Jettie."