who could describe that mouth?  Even in repose, some arch thought seemed ever at play among its changeful curves; and when she spoke or laughed, its wonderful mobility and sweetness of expression threw a perfect witchery over her face.  She was quite short, and, if the truth must be told, a little too stout in figure; but this was in a great measure redeemed by a beautifully moulded neck, on which her head turned with the quickness and grace of a wild pigeon.  Every motion was rapid and decided, and her whole aspect beamed with genius, gayety, and a cordial friendliness, which took the heart at first sight.  And then, her voice, her laugh!—­not so low as Shakspeare commends in woman, but clear, musical, true-hearted, making one glad like the song of the lark at sunrise.

Cousin Harry was a very tall, very pale, very black-haired and black-eyed young gentleman, with a high, open brow, and a very fascinating smile.

The remainder of the garden scene was to me but little more than dumb show.  Perhaps it was more vividly remembered for that very reason.  I recollect being busy filling a little basket with strawberries, while I watched with a pleased, childish curiosity the two young people, as they passed many times up and down the gravelled walk between the rows of flowers.  I was not far from the Button-Rose, and I had nearly filled my basket, when my aunt came to the spot and stooped over the little plant.  Her face was towards me, and I saw several large tears fall from her eyes upon the leaves.  She broke off the most beautiful blossom, and tying it up with some sprigs of mignonette, presented it to Cousin Harry.  They then left the garden.

The next day I heard it said that Cousin Harry was gone away.  The little rose was brought into the house and installed in the bow-window of my aunt’s room, where it was watched and tended by us both with the greatest care.

Some time after this, the news came that Cousin Harry was married.  The next morning I missed my little favorite from the window.  My aunt was reading when I waked.

“Oh, Aunty!” I cried, “where is our little rose?”

“It was too much trouble, Katy,” said she, quietly; “I have put it into the garden.”

“But isn’t it going to stand in our window any more?”

“No, dear, I am tired of it.”

“Oh, do bring it back!  I will take the whole care of it,” said I, beginning to cry.

“Katy,” said my aunt, taking me into her lap, and looking steadily, but kindly, into my face, “listen to me.  I do not wish to have that rose in my room any more; and if you love me, you will never mention it again.”

Something in her manner prevented my uttering a word more in behalf of the poor little exile.  As soon as I was dressed, I ran down into the garden to visit it.  It looked very lonely, I thought; I could hardly bear to leave it.  The day following, it disappeared from the garden, and old Nanny, the housemaid, told me that my aunt had given it away.  I never saw it again.