w it on the inside of a book in the library," smiled Miss Maxwell.
"It is from Emerson, but I'm afraid you haven't quite grown up to it,
Rebecca, and it is one of the things impossible to explain."

"Oh, try me, dear Miss Maxwell!" pleaded Rebecca. "Perhaps by thinking
hard I can guess a little bit what it means."

"'In the actual--this painful kingdom of time and chance--are Care,
Canker, and Sorrow; with thought, with the Ideal, is immortal
hilarity--the rose of Joy; round it all the Muses sing,'" quoted Miss
Maxwell.

Rebecca repeated it over and over again until she had learned it by
heart; then she said, "I don't want to be conceited, but I almost
believe I do understand it, Miss Maxwell. Not altogether, perhaps,
because it is puzzling and difficult; but a little, enough to go on
with. It's as if a splendid shape galloped past you on horseback; you
are so surprised and your eyes move so slowly you cannot half see it,
but you just catch a glimpse as it whisks by, and you know it is
beautiful. It's all settled. My essay is going to be called The Rose of
Joy. I've just decided. It hasn't any beginning, nor any middle, but
there will be a thrilling ending, something like this: let me see; joy,
boy, toy, ahoy, decoy, alloy:--

Then come what will of weal or woe
(Since all gold hath alloy),
Thou 'lt bloom unwithered in this heart,
My Rose of Joy!

Now I'm going to tuck you up in the shawl and give you the fir pillow,
and while you sleep I am going down on the shore and write a fairy
story for you. It's one of our 'supposing' kind; it flies far, far into
the future, and makes beautiful things happen that may never really all
come to pass; but some of them will,--you'll see! and then you'll take
out the little fairy story from your desk and remember Rebecca."

"I wonder why these young things always choose subjects that would tax
the powers of a great essayist!" thought Miss Maxwell, as she tried to
sleep. "Are they dazzled, captivated, taken possession of, by the
splendor of the theme, and do they fancy they can write up to it? Poor
little innocents, hitching their toy wagons to the stars! How pretty
this particular innocent looks under her new sunshade!"

Adam Ladd had been driving through Boston streets on a cold spring day
when nature and the fashion-mongers were holding out promises which
seemed far from performance. Suddenly his vision was assailed by the
sight of a rose-colored parasol gay