Roses of Yesterday

           ThefortnightAnnespentinBolingbrokewasaverypleasantone,withalittleundercurrentofvaguepainanddissatisfactionrunningthroughitwhenevershethoughtaboutGilbert.Therewasnot,however,muchtimetothinkabouthim.“MountHolly,”thebeautifuloldGordonhomestead,wasaverygayplace,overrunbyPhil’sfriendsofbothsexes.Therewasquiteabewilderingsuccessionofdrives,dances,picnicsandboatingparties,allexpressivelylumpedtogetherbyPhilundertheheadof“jamborees”;AlecandAlonzoweresoconstantlyonhandthatAnnewonderediftheyeverdidanythingbutdanceattendanceonthatwill-o’-the-wispofaPhil.Theywerebothnice,manlyfellows,butAnnewouldnotbedrawnintoanyopinionastowhichwasthenicer.

           “AndIdependedsoonyoutohelpmemakeupmymindwhichofthemIshouldpromisetomarry,”mournedPhil.

           “Youmustdothatforyourself.Youarequiteexpertatmakingupyourmindastowhomotherpeopleshouldmarry,”retortedAnne,rathercaustically.

           “Oh,that’saverydifferentthing,”saidPhil,truly.

           ButthesweetestincidentofAnne’ssojourninBolingbrokewasthevisittoherbirthplace—thelittleshabbyyellowhouseinanout-of-the-waystreetshehadsooftendreamedabout.Shelookedatitwithdelightedeyes,assheandPhilturnedinatthegate.

           “It’salmostexactlyasI’vepicturedit,”shesaid.“Thereisnohoneysuckleoverthewindows,butthereisalilactreebythegate,and—yes,therearethemuslincurtainsinthewindows.HowgladIamitisstillpaintedyellow.