Life is made up of desires that seem big and vital one minute,
and little and absurd the next. I guess we get what's best for us in
the end."
"I haven't so far!" Don said fiercely. "I've gotten what was worst for
me and I've made the worst of it."
They had turned into the lane now and were walking their horses up to
the stile where Jimpson was waiting to take them.
"Don't put my mare up," directed Donald. "I've got to ride back to
town to-night. There's rain in those clouds; I ought to be starting
this minute."
But his haste was evidently not imperative, for he followed Miss Lady
through the narrow winding paths, between a tangle of shrubs and
vines, into the old-fashioned flower garden. The spiraea was just
putting out its long, feathery plumes of white, and the lilacs nodded
white and purple in the breeze.
"Here's the first wild rose!" cried Miss Lady, darting to a corner of
the old stone wall; "the idea of its daring to come out so soon!"
He took the frail little blossom and smiled at it half quizzically:
"It's funny," he said awkwardly, "your giving me this. You know, it's
what you made me think of, the first time I saw you,--a wild rose.
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