“But June flowers are sweetest and dearest—­tender nurslings of the summer, first-born of her love,” said Rose, as they stepped out into the portico.  “It may be that the eye gets sated with beauty, as nature grows lavish of her gifts; but the first white and red petals that unfold themselves have a more delicate perfume—­seem made of purer elements and more wonderful in perfection—­than their later sisters.  Is it not so?”

“If it only appears so it is all the same as if real,” replied Mr. Delancy, smiling.

“How?”

“It is real to you.  What more could you have?  Not more enjoyment of summer’s gifts of beauty and sweetness.”

“No; perhaps not.”

Rose let her eyes fall to the ground, and remained silent.

“Things are real to us as we see them; not always as they are,” said Mr. Delancy.

“And this is true of life?”

“Yes, child.  It is in life that we create for ourselves real things out of what to some are airy nothings.  Real things, against which we often bruise or maim ourselves, while to others they are as intangible as shadows.”

“I never thought of that,” said Rose.

“It is true.”

“Yes, I see it.  Imaginary evils we thus make real things, and hurt ourselves by contact, as, maybe, you have done this morning, Mr. Delancy.”

“Yes—­yes.  And false ideas of things which are unrealities in the abstract—­for only what is true has actual substance—­become real to the perverted understanding.  Ah, child, there are strange contradictions and deep problems in life for each of us to solve.”

“But, God helping us, we may always reach the true solution,” said Rose Carman, lifting a bright, confident face to that of her companion.

“That was spoken well, my child,” returned Mr. Delancy, with a new life in his voice; “and without Him we can never be certain of our way.”

“Never—­never.”  There was a tender, trusting solemnity in the voice of Rose.

“Young, but wise,” said Mr. Delancy.

“No!  Young, but not wise.  I cannot see the way plain before me for a single week, Mr. Delancy.  For a week?  No, not for a day!”

“Who does?” asked the old man.

“Some.”

“None.  There are many who walk onward with erect heads and confident bearing.  They are sure of their way, and smile if one whisper a caution as to the ground upon which they step so fearlessly.  But they soon get astray or into pitfalls.  God keeping and guiding us, Rose, we may find our way safely through this world.  But we will soon lose ourselves if we trust in our own wisdom.”

Thus they talked—­that old man and gentle-hearted girl—­as they moved about the garden-walks, every new flower, or leaf, or opening bud they paused to admire or examine, suggesting themes for wiser words than usually pass between one so old and one so young.  At Mr. Delancy’s earnest request, Rose stayed to dinner, the waiting-man being tent to her father’s, not far distant, to take word that she would not be at home until in the afternoon.