“The rose is the flower of love—the world has acclaimed it so for centuries. The pink roses are love hopeful and expectant—the white roses are love dead or forsaken—but the red roses—ah, Leslie, what are the red roses?”
“Love triumphant,” said Leslie in a low voice.
“Yes—love triumphant and perfect. Leslie, you know—you understand. I have loved you from the first. And I know you love me—I don’t need to ask you. But I want to hear you say it—my darling—my darling!”
Leslie said something in a very low and tremulous voice. Their hands and lips met; it was life’s supreme moment for them and as they stood there in the old garden, with its many years of love and delight and sorrow and glory, he crowned her shining hair with the red, red rose of a love triumphant.
Anne and Gilbert returned presently, accompanied by Captain Jim. Anne lighted a few sticks of driftwood in the fireplace, for love of the pixy flames, and they sat around it for an hour of good fellowship.
“When I sit looking at a driftwood fire it’s easy to believe I’m young again,” said Captain Jim.
“Can you read futures in the fire, Captain Jim?” asked Owen.
Captain Jim looked at them all affectionately and then back again at Leslie’s vivid face and glowing eyes.
