"Why, in the first letter you ever wrote father you sent your love to any of his children that should happen to be of the right size. I chanced to be _just_ the right size, so I accepted it, gratefully; I've got it here with me to-night; no, I left it in my other coat," he said merrily, making a fictitious search through his pockets. Nancy laughed at his nonsense; she could not help it. "Will you promise to get over your foolish and wicked prejudices if I on my part promise never to take the Yellow House away from you unless you wish?" continued Tom. "Willingly," exclaimed Nancy joyously. "That's the safest promise I could make, for I would never give up living in it unless I had to. First it was father's choice, then it was mother's, now all of us seem to have built ourselves into it, as it were. I am almost afraid to care so much about anything, and I shall be so relieved if you do not turn out to be really a Yellow Peril after all!" "You are much more of a Yellow Peril yourself!" said Tom, "with that dress and that ribbon in your hair! Will you dance the next dance with me, please?" "It's The Tempest; do you know it?" "No, but I'm not so old but I may learn. I'll form myself on that wonderful person who makes jokes about the Admiral and plays the fiddle." "That's Ossian Popham, principal prop of the House of Carey!" "Lucky dog! Have you got all the props you need?" Nancy's hand was not old or strong or experienced enough to keep this strange young man in order, and just as she was meditating some blighting retort he went on:-- "Who is that altogether adorable, that unspeakably beautiful lady in black?--the one with the pearl comb that looks like a crown?" "That's mother," said Nancy, glowing. "I thought so. At least I didn't know any other way to account for her." "Why does she have to be accounted for?" asked Nancy, a little bewildered. "For the same reason that you do," said the audacious youth. "You explain your mother and your mother explains you, a little, at any rate. Where is the celebrated crimson rambler, please?" "You are sitting on it," Nancy answered tranquilly. Tom sprang away from the trellis, on which he had been half reclining. "Bless my soul!" he exclaimed. "Why didn't you tell me? I have a great affection for that rambler; it was your planting it that first made me--think favorably of you. Has it any roses on it? I can't see in this light." "It is almost out of bloom; there may be a few at the top somewhere; I'll look out my window to-morrow morning and see." "At about what hour?" "How should I know?" laughed Nancy. "Oh! you're not to be depended on!" said Tom rebukingly. "Just give me your hand a moment; step on that lowest rung of the trellis, now one step higher, please; now stretch up your right hand and pick that little cluster, do you see it?--That's right; now down, be careful, there you are, thank you! A rose in the hand is worth two in the morning."