are more like Una, in the 'Faerie
Queene.' In fact, I think you _are_ Una."

"And then," continued Rose, "there is another thing! At least, there are
a thousand other things, but one that I was thinking of specially just
now, when you named the trees. That was only play to you; but, Hilda, it
used to be almost quite real for me,--that sort of thing. Sitting there
as I used, day after day, year after year, mostly alone,--for mother
and Bubble were always at work, you know,--you cannot imagine how real
all the garden-people, as I called them, were to me. Why, my
Eglantine--I never told you about Eglantine, Hilda!"

"No, heartless thing! you never did," said Hildegarde; "and you may tell
me this instant. A pretty friend you are, keeping things from me in that
way!"

"She was a fair maiden," said Rose. "She stood against the wall, just by
my window. She was very lovely and graceful, with long, slender arms.
Some people called her a sweetbrier-bush. She was my most intimate
friend, and was always peeping in at the window and calling me to come
out. When I came and sat close beside her in my chair, she would bend
over me, and tell me all about her love-affairs, which gave her a great
deal of trouble."

"Poor thing!" said Hildegarde, sympathetically.

"She had two lovers," continued Rose, dreamily, talking half to herself.
"One was Sir Scraggo de Cedar, a tall knight in rusty armor, who stood
very near her, and loved her to distraction. But she cared nothing for
him, and had given her heart to the South Wind,--the most fickle and
tormenting lover you can imagine. Sometimes he was perfectly charming,
and wooed her in the most enchanting manner, murmuring soft things in
her ear, and kissing and caressing her, till I almost fell in love with
him myself. Then he would leave her alone,--oh! for days and days,--till
she drooped, poor thing! and was perfectly miserable. And then perhaps
he would come again in a fury, and shake and beat her in the most
frightful manner, tearing her hair out, and sometimes flinging her right
into the arms of poor Sir Scraggo, who quivered with emotion, but never
took advantage of the situation. I used to be _very_ sorry for Sir
Scraggo."

"What a shame!" cried Hildegarde, warmly. "Couldn't you make her care
for the poor dear?"

"Oh, no!" said Rose. "She was very self-willed, that gentle Eglantine,
in spite of her soft, pretty ways. There was no moving her. She turned
her back as nearly as she