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 crimson, he would merrily drive them out of his floral domains, and watch them wave their hands as they turned the pathway at the top of the hill which led to the village. As he retraced his steps to the porch he would sometimes stand beside a tree of roses great crimson blossoms—more beautiful than all the others. Their colour was richer than the sweetest of the blossoms on the neighbouring bushes, their perfume more fragrant. It grew apart from them, too, on the lawn. He would look at the name on the wooden tablet and read the simple word, "Marion." That was the name he had given to his favourite tree—"Marion"; and murmuring the word he would enter the house very quietly.

One evening the children had all gone—he had bid them "good-bye" as usual. He turned to enter the house. A whole week had passed since he had examined his favourite rose-tree. Crossing the grassy lawn he came to "the Marion." One of the great blossoms was drooping, but just from the same green stalk a fresh bud was shooting forth. The old man took out his knife and cut off the faded flower. He looked at the bud thoughtfully. He seemed to read a story amongst the roses—a story that went to his heart. He looked again at the dead blossom in his hand. Then his eye wandered towards the bud. He burst into tears, and quickly turned away.

"My daughter, my darling Marion! I was cruel to send you away, very cruel. A father's love for you made me think it impossible for even a husband to love you as I did. Shall I ever see you again, or shall I see you dead—dead as this once beautiful blossom, which can never again help to sweeten my days and brighten an old man's life? Oh, come back to life again, and bring your little one with you. Come—come—come!"

He entered the house weeping.

It was the morning of the next day, and the children were on their way to school. They always passed "Rose Glen," and old Holloway would invariably be at the gate. But this morning the children seemed more excited than usual; something had evidently happened, or was about to happen, which made their little hearts beat faster than ever. They had started earlier than was their wont, for somehow they had got to know that it was "Grandfather's" birthday, and each wanted to be there first. On, on they went, laughing, shouting, and clapping their hands in delight. What was there to stop the happy ripple of their little tongues? It would seem—nothing. They were children—little children—and were as free as the birds which were singing