the Italian part of his nature there was a touch of superstition, and he was just then in that state of half-sweet, half-bitter melancholy, when imaginative young men find significance in trifles, and food for romance everywhere. He had thought of Jo in reaching after the thorny red rose, for vivid flowers became her, and she had often worn ones like that from the greenhouse at home. The pale roses Amy gave him were the sort that the Italians lay in dead hands, never in bridal wreaths, and, for a moment, he wondered if the omen was for Jo or for himself; but the next instant his American common sense got the better of sentimentality, and he laughed a heartier laugh than Amy had heard since he came.
“It’s good advice; you’d better take it and save your fingers,” she said, thinking her speech amused him.
“Thank you, I will,” he answered in jest, and a few months later he did it in earnest.
“Laurie, when are you going to your grandfather?” she asked presently, as she settled herself on a rustic seat.
“Very soon.”
“You have said that a dozen times within the last three weeks.”
“I dare say; short answers save trouble.”
“He expects you, and you really ought to go.”
“Hospitable creature! I know it.”
“Then why don’t you do it?”
“Natural depravity, I suppose.”
“Natural indolence, you mean. It’s really dreadful!” and Amy looked severe.