Mabin hung her head, feeling rather guilty, but with yet more enjoyment of the present reconciliation than remorse for the past estrangement. Instead of taking her straight in, Rudolph led her across the gravel to a flower-border, where, in a little open patch of sunlight, a rosebush grew. It was a “Mrs. John Lang,” and the huge pink blossoms were in their full beauty and fragrance. “I’ve brought you here,” he said didactically, “to read you a moral lesson. Here we have a rose, full of beauty and sweetness to every one, but without any thorns. While _some_ Roses I know----” “Are all thorns to everybody, and are without any beauty,” finished Mabin for him, laughing, “and without any sweetness.” “No, no, not at all. But they seldom let you come near enough to admire the beauty, and they are rather chary of their sweetness. Now I hope you’ll profit by this lesson.” “To be sure I--shan’t!” replied Mabin with a rather doleful smile. “I do try to be less--less objectionable--sometimes,” she added with seriousness which made Rudolph smile. “But it doesn’t seem to be very successful. I think I’m going to give up the effort and accept the fate of ‘an awful example’ as serenely as I can.” Rudolph tried not to let his smile grow too broad for politeness. “You are an odd girl,” he said at last. “Or is it another insult to tell you so?” Mabin shook her head. “If it’s an insult,” answered she, “it is one that I’m used to.” “One is almost as much afraid of saying anything complimentary to you as of giving you what you call insults,” he began cautiously. “Otherwise I would tell you that I like ‘odd’ people, people who don’t always say and do the right thing, that is.” “Then you ought to appreciate me,” retorted Mabin quickly. “For everybody says I always do and say the _wrong_ thing!” “I do appreciate you.” Mabin laughed and blushed. “I only said that in fun,” she said awkwardly. “Well, I said what I did in earnest.” “Mrs. Dale will be wondering what has become of us,” said Mabin. She was not at all anxious to go in; but the pleasure she felt in this talk with Rudolph had grown rather alarming to her reserve. She began to fear that she would spoil it all by one of her far-famed blunders of speech. And so she chose to cut short the enjoyment while it could remain a recollection of unalloyed delight. Rudolph, on his side, was in no hurry to go in; although he took a step obediently toward the portico. From a feeling of perversity which she could not have accounted for, Mabin chose to talk about Mrs. Dale as they went slowly toward the house. “I have been longing to see her ever since my accident,” she said. “But although I have been always hovering about the place, wishing she would come out, to-day is the very first time I have caught sight of her.” “That is exactly my own experience,” said Rudolph. “She seems to have given up driving about the place, and to have shut herself up in this dreary old house just like a nun.”