"How you always see, John, so easily, the pretty little wild beauties of the woods; I never could." She was "making up" as children say.
"Oh, you were the schoolmaster once," he laughed.

"Come, we have enough; now for the garden." They passed through the paling fence and along the disordered beds, where a night of too early frost had touched with chill fingers of disaster the latest buds.

Leila moved about looking at the garden, fingering a bud here and there with gentle epitaphs of "late," "too late," or gathering the more matronly roses which had bloomed in time.

John watched her bend over them, and then where there were none but frost-wilted buds stand still and fondle with tender touch the withered maidens of the garden.
He came to her side, "Well, Leila, I'll swap thoughts with you." She looked up, "Your's first then." "I was thinking it must be hard to die before you came to be a rose--like some other more human things." "Is that a charade, John?
You will be writing poems about the lament of the belated virgin roses that had not gathered more timely sunshine and were alas! too late." He looked at her with a smile of pleased surprise.

"Thanks, cousin; it is you who should be the laureate of the garden.