Part 1 (2/2)

”I--guess not,” said Narcissa, with an apprehensive glance over her shoulder. ”I only keep house for the man here,--he's my father's uncle,--and he don't buy such things. I wish”--she sighed, and looked longingly at the black satchel. ”I suppose you've got roses, have you, and all kinds of flowers?”

”I should think so!” replied the youth, proudly. ”Our house is the greatest one in the State for roses. Let me show you some pictures.”

He opened the satchel and took out a black order-book filled with brilliant pictures.

”Oh!” cried Narcissa, ”I--I guess I'd better not look at 'em. I don't believe he'd like it. Not but what I'm just as much obliged to you,”

she added, hastily.

But the stranger had already opened the book.

”Just look here, lady,” he said. ”Why, it can't do no manner of hurt for you to look at them. Just see here! Here's the Jacqueminot rose, the finest in the world, some folks think. Why, we've got beds and beds of it. Splendid grower, and sweet--well there! I can't give you any idea of it. Cornelia Cook! that's a great rose nowadays. And here's a white blush, that looks for all the world like--”

Here he stopped suddenly; for it was Narcissa's cheek that the rose was like, he thought, and it came to him suddenly that he did not want to say such things to this girl.

The girl at the house below, when he had paid her compliments, had laughed in his face, well pleased, and seemed to ask for more; but she was an ordinary girl, like other folks. This soft, shadowy maiden might shrink away, and vanish in the dusky porch, if he should touch her rudely.

He need have had no fear, for Narcissa would hardly have heard or understood his compliment. She was gazing with hungry eyes at the bright pictures, drinking in every shade of crimson and scarlet and gold.

”Oh, stop!” she cried eagerly. ”Oh, may I read about that one? Ain't it beautiful! May I?”

”Well, I should think you might!” replied the gallant agent, holding the book toward her. ”Here, lean right over me; I'd like to read it too.”

”'This grand rose,'” Narcissa read aloud,”'has created an epoch in rose-growing. Of free habit and luxurious growth, the plants form the most splendid ornament of garden or hot-house. The beautiful, perfectly-shaped flowers show a marvellous blending of colors, in which a rich apricot predominates, shading into light pink, bright canary, and pale yellow. The outer petals are grandly recurved, forming a fine contrast to the Camellia-like inner petals. With its rare and exquisite fragrance, its bold and beautiful foliage, and the unparalleled profusion with which its splendid blossoms are borne, we claim that this rose is absolutely _without a rival_.'”

Narcissa drew a long breath and looked up, her eyes full of awe and admiration. ”Ain't that elegant?” she said simply. ”They have great writers there, don't they?”

The youth smiled, as he thought of little Mr. Bimsey, who ”got up” the catalogues and kept the accounts; then, reminded by this and by the fading light that he had still a good way to go before nightfall, he added, rising reluctantly from his seat,--

”I must be going, I guess. You haven't any notion how far it might be to Rome, have you, lady?”

Narcissa shook her head.

”It's a long way,” she said. ”When Uncle Pinker goes there with the turkeys in the fall, it takes him the whole day to go and come.”

”You haven't got a map of the county?” persisted the youth. ”I'd ought to have one myself, and I guess I shall have to get me one. I'm a stranger in these parts.”

Narcissa shook her head again. ”We haven't got any kind of a map, as I know of,” she said; but next moment her face brightened. ”We've got a picture of Rome,” she said,--”a real handsome picture. Would you like to see it?”

”Well, if it ain't too much trouble.”

Narcissa led the way into the house, cautioning the stranger to tread softly. ”Uncle Pinker is asleep,” she said. ”He's real old, and he sleeps in the afternoon, most times. He's so deef, he wouldn't hear you most likely, but you never can count on deef folks. Not but what he'd be pleased to see you,” she added, with a doubtful look at a closed door as she pa.s.sed it.

”I'd ought to make you acquainted with my name, seem's though,” said the agent, following her into a dim, dreary room. ”My name's Patten,--Romulus Patten.” He paused, and then went on: ”Folks always ask how I got my name, so I get into the way of firing right ahead before they ask. My mother got it out of the history book. She was a great hand for history, my mother was. It seems queer, my going to Rome, don't it? They made consid'able fun about it, down to our place, but I'm used to that, and don't mind it.”

There was no answering gleam in Narcissa's lovely eyes. ”Romulus? was he in the Revolution?” she asked. ”I had to leave school before we got through history. I'd only got as far as the Battle of Lexington, when Aunt Pinker died, and I had to come and keep house for Uncle Pinker.

It was real interestin',” she added, with a little sigh of regret, ”I wish't I could have finished history.”

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