"
"Sophie's a pansy," I said.
"Sophie's a Sharon rose," spake Aaron.
He looked inquiringly at me, and added,--
"And you, Anna?"
"An aloe, Aaron."
He smiled the least in the world, and said,--
"Had I been asked, instead of being the asker, I should have made
answer, 'She's a Japan rose.'"
"Oh, Aaron, no fragrance! that's not complimentary."
"Crush the leaves of heliotrope in the cup, Anna."
I did not understand what he meant, then; perhaps I do not now: some
figure of speech from the Orient, I fancy, with a glow of meaning about
it visible only to poetic vision. I lost my way, blinded in seeking to
penetrate the mystery, and was brought back to Redleaf by two welcome
events: the cup Chloe brought, and the letter Aaron gave, with a
beseeching of pardon for having forgotten to give it in the morning.
I read my letter, interluding it with little commas of sipping at the
cup. It was from my father, very brief, but somewhat stirring. Here it
lies before me now.
"My MYRTLE-VINE,--
"I want you at home. I am well; but that is no reason why I should
not need your greenness on my walls. Come home, dear child, on the
morrow. Do not fail me. You never have; 't would be cruel now, when
spring is coming, the very time of hope. Waitingly,
"Your father,
"JULIUS PERCIVAL.
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