dear?" said Mrs. Allen, very quietly, with a twinkle in her eye.
Ally took the Dominie's white silk handkerchief roguishly from his lap, saying: "I want it to give Mr. Will an embroidery lesson on, papa." Then, sitting down on a low cushion at my feet, she looked up in my face, and as she threaded a large needle with crimson floss, asked:—
"Now, what flower will you have, Mr. Will?"
"A rose, Ally," I said, "if that is not too much trouble."
"Oh no," she said. "That is very easy."
In and out, in and out flew the needle—making long loops at every stitch, as a crayon might make long curves; and in less than ten minutes a perfect, many-leaved crimson rose had blossomed on the silk.
"Now I will show you how easy it is to unmake a rose," she said, smiling, half sadly; "the petals can go almost as quickly as they do in the wind." After a few quick, short snaps of the scissors rosy ends of the floss fluttered to the floor; she pulled out the rest, and held up the handkerchief spotless white again. "That rose has had its day," she said, and fixed her eyes dreamily on the crimson threads on the floor. "It was n't a rose after all; is any rose a rose, Mr. Will?"
Dimly I understood her, but my dull sense groped vainly after the words which should carry my meaning.
