At the end of the minute he became himself once more; and being himself, he expressed his delight at once in the only way he knew how to do--by raising his violin and beginning to play.
He had meant to tell of the limpid pool and of the arch of the bridge it reflected; of the terraced lawns and marble steps, and of the gleaming white of the sculptured nymphs and fauns; of the splashes of glorious crimson, yellow, blush-pink, and snowy white against the green, where the roses rioted in luxurious bloom.

He had meant, also, to tell of the Queen Rose of them all--the beauteous lady with hair like the gold of sunrise, and a gown like the shimmer of the moon on water--of all this he had meant to tell; but he had scarcely begun to tell it at all when the Beauteous Lady of the Roses sprang to her feet and became so very much like an angry young woman who is seriously displeased that David could only lower his violin in dismay.
"Why, boy, what does this mean ?" she demanded.
David sighed a little impatiently as he came forward into the sunlight.
"But I was just telling you," he remonstrated, "and you would not let me finish." "Telling me!" "Yes, with my violin.

COULDn't you understand ?" appealed the boy wistfully.

"You looked as if you could!" "Looked as if I could!" "Yes.

Joe understood, you see, and I was surprised when HE did.