"The rose is the flower of love--the world has
acclaimed it so for centuries. The pink roses are
love hopeful and expectant--the white roses are love
dead or forsaken--but the red roses--ah, Leslie, what
are the red roses?"
"Love triumphant," said Leslie in a low voice.
"Yes--love triumphant and perfect. Leslie, you
know--you understand. I have loved you from the
first. And I KNOW you love me--I don't need to ask
you. But I want to hear you say it--my darling-- my
darling!"
Leslie said something in a very low and tremulous
voice. Their hands and lips met; it was life's
supreme moment for them and as they stood there in the
old garden, with its many years of love and delight and
sorrow and glory, he crowned her shining hair with the
red, red rose of a love triumphant.
Anne and Gilbert returned presently, accompanied by
Captain Jim. Anne lighted a few sticks of driftwood in
the fireplace, for love of the pixy flames, and they
sat around it for an hour of good fellowship.
"When I sit looking at a driftwood fire it's easy to
believe I'm young again," said Captain Jim.
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