Meanwhile, little Rose's response to his clumsy tenderness taught
him many unsuspected lessons. He never would have believed the
pleasure there could be in simply watching a child's eyes light
with glee over a five-cent bag of candy. It began to be a regular
thing for him to bring one home from Fallon, each trip, and the
gay hunts that followed as she searched for it--sometimes to find
the treasure in Martin's hat, sometimes under the buggy seat,
sometimes in a knobby hump under the table-cloth at her
plate--more than once brought his rare smile. For years
afterward, the memory of one evening lingered with him. He was
resting in an old chair tipped back against the house, thinking
deeply, when the little girl, tired from her play, climbed into
his lap and, making a cozy nest for herself in the crook of his
arm, fell asleep. He had finished planning out the work upon
which he had been concentrating and had been about to take her
into the house when he suddenly became aware of the child's
loveliness. In the silvery moonlight all the fairy, flower-like
quality of her was enhanced. Martin studied her closely,
reverently. It was his first conscious worship of beauty. Leaning
down to the rosy lips he listened to the almost imperceptible
breathing; he touched the long, sweeping lashes resting on the
smooth cheeks and lifted one of the curls the wind had been
ruffling lightly against his face. With his whole soul, he
marvelled at her softness and relaxation. A profound, pitying
rebellion gripped him at the idea that anything so sweet, so
perfect must pass slowly through the defacing furnaces of time
and pain. "Little Rose of Sharon!" he thought gently, conscious
of an actual tearing at his heart, even a startling stinging in
his eyes. With an abruptness that almost awakened her, he carried