On many a summer night in years past they had seen their father and
mother pace the winding length of the avenue together. Now, when the
tender gloom of evening was beginning, and the solitary figure of the
Commodore was seen going with drooped head toward his favourite walk,
it was Rose who ran with eager step to take the vacant place at his
side. If his heart was saddened by that shadowy presence, which walks
at eventide by the side of him who is bereaved, it could not be wholly
cast down so long as warm clinging hands were about his arm, a bright
face looking up into his, and a clear voice, from which every note of
sadness was excluded, murmuring a thousand entertaining nothings in
his ear.
If Rose was a never-failing fountain of alluring fiction to Herbert
and Eva, and the comfort of life to her father, she was the
sympathizing _confidante_ of her elder brother, who unburdened his
heart to her in a private interview just before retiring.
"But what under the sun made you kiss her?" inquired this practical
young lady.
"Oh, murder, Rose, what a question! What under the sun makes one taste
a peach or pluck a flower?"
"But if the peach or the flower does not belong to you? Well, I'll not
lecture you, Edward; you have sufficiently expiated your offence.
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