“What were you reading, Anne?”
“I was looking through a book about rose growing. The gardener had been asking me about some new varieties he had just bought. I’m interested in such things, and the book was well written. But I never want to see it again,—or a rose either.”
There was a look of horror in her eyes, and I felt that the rose-book brought back the scenes of that dreadful night so poignantly that she could scarcely bear it.
I changed the subject, and persistently led her mind away from the scene of the tragedy.
“You always do me so much good, Raymond,” Anne said, gratefully, as at last we started back to the house; “you always know just what to say to me. You’re a real comfort.”
“You need and deserve comfort, Anne,” I said, gently, “and I think you know you may always depend
