Aspatria was enraptured, spellbound with delight. With Ulfar she wandered from one beauty to another, until they finally reached a great standard of pale-pink roses. Their loveliness was beyond compare; their scent went to the brain like some divine essence. It was a glory,--a prayer,--a song of joy! Aspatria stood beside it, and seemed to Ulfar but its mortal manifestation. She was clothed in a gown of pale-pink brocade, with a little mantle of the same, trimmed with white lace, and a bonnet of white lace and pink roses. She was a perfect rose of womanhood. She was the glory of his life, his prayer, his song of joy! "It is the loveliest place in the world!" he said, "and you! you are the loveliest woman! My sweet Aspatria!" She smiled divinely. "And yet," she answered, "I remember, Ulfar, a song of yours that said something very different. Listen:-- 'There is a rose of a hundred leaves, _But the wild rose is the sweetest_!'" And as she sang the words, Ulfar had a vision of a young girl, fresh and pure as a mountain bluebell, in her scrimp black frock. He saw the wind blowing it tight over her virgin form; he saw her fair, childish, troubled face as she kissed him farewell in the vicar's meadows; and then he saw the glorious woman, nobly planned, perfect on every side, that the child wife had grown to. So, when she ceased, he pulled the fairest rose on the tree; he took from it every thorn, he put it in her breast, he kissed the rose, and he kissed her rose-like face. Then he took up the song where she dropped it; and hand in hand, keeping time to its melody, they crossed the threshold of their blessed home. "The robin sang beneath the eaves: 'There is a rose of a hundred leaves, _But the wild rose is the sweetest_!' "The nightingale made answer clear: '_O darling rose! more fair, more dear! O rose of a hundred leaves_!'" THE END. * * * * * Transcriber Notes Archaic spelling preserved, including pottle and alterative. Passages in italics indicated by _underscores_.