couldn't have 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."

The child scrambled to her feet and, seated on his broad shoulder,
granted the demand for toll. Her aunt's eyes filled. This was the first
time she had ever heard Martin ask for something as sentimental as a
kiss. She was thoroughly ashamed of herself for it--it was really too
absurd!--but she felt jealousy, an emotion that had never bothered her
since they had been married. And this bit of chattering femininity had
caused it. Mrs. Wade worked faster.

The kiss was like the touch of silk against Martin's cheek. He felt
inexplicably sad as he put the child down again among her playthings.
There was, he realized with a shock, much that he was missing, things
he was letting work supplant. He wished that boy of theirs could have
lived. All might have been different. He had almost forgotten that
disappointment, had never understood until this moment what a misfortune
it had been, and here he was being gripped by a more poignant sense