Every breeze brought fragrance to
the open windows and scattered it through the house.
Madame's heart ached for Rose, but still she said no word, though it
seemed to her that the blindness of the others could not last much
longer. She could not take Rose away unless she took Isabel also, and,
should she do that, things would soon be just as they were now.
As Rose faded, Isabel blossomed into the full flower of her youth. Her
high, bird-like laugh echoed constantly through the house and garden,
whether anyone was with her or not. With sinking heart, Rose envied her
even a tithe of her abundant joy.
As the moon approached its full, the roses had begun to drop their
petals. Under every bush was a scattered bit of fragrance that meant
both death and resurrection. Far down in the garden, where the sunken
lily-pool mirrored the stars, the petals of golden roses drifted idly
across the shining surface.
Rose had worn white at dinner, as she always did, now, the night the
June moon came to its full. Isabel, too, was in white, but with a
difference, for as surely as the older woman's white was mourning, her
silver spangles were donned for joy.
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