`Ihave，butitwouldbewrongtotalkofitnow。’
`Itwaswrongtotalkofitthen，Gilbert；itwouldnotnow——unlesstodosowouldbetoviolatethetruth。’
Iwastoomuchagitatedtospeak；but，withoutwaitingforananswer，sheturnedawayherglisteningeyeandcrimsoncheek，andthrewupthewindowandlookedout，whethertocalmherownexcitedfeelingsortorelieveherembarrassment，——oronlytopluckthatbeautifulhalf-blownChristmasrosethatgrewuponthelittleshrubwithout，justpeepingfromthesnow，thathadhitherto，nodoubt，defendeditfromthefrost，andwasnowmeltingawayinthesun。Pluckithowever，shedid，andhavinggentlydashedtheglitteringpowderfromitsleaves，approachedittoherlipsandsaid，`Thisroseisnotsofragrantasasummerflower，butithasstoodthroughhardshipsnoneofthemcouldbear：thecoldrainofwinterhassufficedtonourishit，anditsfaintsuntowarmit；thebleakwindshavenotblanchedit，orbrokenitsstem，andthekeenfrosthasnotblightedit。Look，Gilbert，itisstillfreshandbloomingasaflowercanbe，withthecoldsnowevennowonitspetals——Willyouhaveit？’
Iheldoutmyhand：Idarednotspeaklestmyemotionshouldovermasterme。Shelaidtheroseacrossmypalm，butIscarcelyclosedmyfingersuponit，sodeeplywasIabsorbedinthinkingwhatmightbethemeaningofherwords，andwhatIoughttodoorsayupontheoccasion；whethertogivewaytomyfeelingsorrestrainthemstill。Misconstruingthishesitationintoindifference——orreluctanceeven——toaccepthergift，Helensuddenlysnatcheditfrommyhand，threwitoutontothesnow，shutdownthewindowwithanemphasis，andwithdrewtothefire。
`Helen！whatmeansthis？’Icried，electrifiedatthisstartlingchangeinherdemeanour。