“Then—­let us get those roses for Aunt Ann—­what are left of them.”

She was glad to escape further discussion—­not sure of her capacity to keep in order this cousin who was now so young and now so alarmingly old.  His abrupt use of self-control she recognised—­liked and then disliked, for a little wrath in his reply would have made her feel more at ease.  With well-reassumed good-humour, she said, “Now you are my nice old playmate, but never, never bother me that way again.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said John, laughing.  “I can hear Aunt Ann say, ’Run, dears, and get me flowers—­and—­there will be cakes for you.’”

“No, bread and apple-butter, John.”  They went along merry, making believe to be at ease.

“The robins are gone,” said Leila.  “I haven’t seen one today; and the warblers are getting uneasy and will be gone soon.  I haven’t seen a squirrel lately.  Josiah used to say that meant an early winter.”

“Oh, but the asters!  What colour!  And the golden-rod!  Look at it close, Leila.  Each little flower is a star of gold.”

“How pretty!” She bent down over the flowers to pay the homage of honest pleasure.  “How you always see, John, so easily, the pretty little wild beauties of the woods; I never could.”  She was “making up” as children say.

“Oh, you were the schoolmaster once,” he laughed.  “Come, we have enough; now for the garden.”

They passed through the paling fence and along the disordered beds, where a night of too early frost had touched with chill fingers of disaster the latest buds.  Leila moved about looking at the garden, fingering a bud here and there with gentle epitaphs of “late,” “too late,” or gathering the more matronly roses which had bloomed in time.  John watched her bend over them, and then where there were none but frost-wilted buds stand still and fondle with tender touch the withered maidens of the garden.

He came to her side, “Well, Leila, I’ll swap thoughts with you.”

She looked up, “Your’s first then.”

“I was thinking it must be hard to die before you came to be a rose—­like some other more human things.”

“Is that a charade, John?  You will be writing poems about the lament of the belated virgin roses that had not gathered more timely sunshine and were alas! too late.”

He looked at her with a smile of pleased surprise.  “Thanks, cousin; it is you who should be the laureate of the garden.  Shelley would envy you.”

“Indeed!  I am flattered, sir, but I have not read any of Shelley as yet.  You have, I suppose?  He is supposed to be very wicked.  Get me some more golden-rod, John.”  He went back to the edge of the wood and came again laden, rejoining her at the porch.

For two days her aunt kept her busy.  Early in the week she went away to be met in Philadelphia by her Uncle Charles, and to be returned to her Maryland school.