"He seems to be more than usually roused
to-night."
Rose suppressed a yawn. "Does he talk better when he is roused than he
does when he's asleep?" she asked.
"Surely he displayed no signs of sleepiness when talking with you."
"No; but I cannot answer for myself."
That senseless pang of jealousy died a very easy death after all, and
the only sufferer from it would have been entirely happy were it not
for the advancing form of Commodore Macleod, who came in search of his
daughter, and bore her off with a speed that left her lover a little
chilled and daunted.
The Canadian winter with its bright, fierce days and sparkling nights
was upon them, but it held no terrors for the young hearts who met it
in a mood as defiantly merry as its own. Only a suffering or morbid
nature sees in winter the synonym of death and decay; fancies that
mourning and desolation is the burden of the gaily whistling winds;
and regards the bare trees, rid of their dusty garments, and quietly
resting, as shivering skeletons, and the dancing snow-flakes as the
colourless pall that hides from sight all there is of life and
loveliness.
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