. "Well, well, crying won't mend it. I suppose it is
a judgment on me for staying abed so late. Go and sweep up the pieces,
and do try and be a little more careful, Charlotte."

"Yes'm," said Charlotta meekly. She dared not resent being called
Charlotte just then. "And I'll tell you what I'll do, ma'am, to make
up, I'll go and weed the garden. Yes'm, I'll do it beautiful."

"And pull up more flowers than weeds," Miss Corona reflected
mournfully. But it did not matter; nothing mattered. She saw Charlotta
sally forth into the garden with a determined, do-or-die expression
surmounting her freckles, without feeling interest enough to go and
make sure that she did not root out all the late asters in her tardy
and wilfully postponed warfare on weeds.

This mood lasted until the afternoon. Then Miss Corona, whose heart
and thoughts were still down in the festive house in the valley,
roused herself enough to go out and see what Charlotta was doing.
After finding out, she wandered idly about the rambling, old-fashioned
place, which was full of nooks and surprises. At every turn you might
stumble on some clump or tangle of sweetness, showering elusive
fragrance on the air, that you would never have suspected. Nothing in
the garden was planted quite where it should be, yet withal it was the
most delightful spot imaginable.

Miss Corona pushed her way into the cherry-tree copse, and followed a
tiny, overgrown path to a sunshiny corner beyond. She had not been
there since last summer; the little path was getting almost
impassable. When she emerged from the cherry trees, somewhat rumpled
and pulled about in hair and attire, but attended, as if by a
benediction, by the aromatic breath of the mint she had trodden on,
she gave a little cry and stood quite still, gazing at the rosebush
that grew in the corner. It was so large and woody that it seemed more
like a tree than a bush, and it was snowed over with a splendour of
large, pure white roses.

"Dear life," whispered Miss Corona tremulously, as she tiptoed towards
it. "The bride roses have bloomed again! How very strange! Why, there
has not been a rose on that tree for twenty years."

The rosebush had been planted there by Corona's great-grandmother, the
lady of the green and yellow bowl. It was a new variety, brought out
from Scotland by Mary Gordon, and it bore large white roses which
three generations of Gordon brides had worn on their wedding day. It
had come to be a family