The flowers were damp; they made mildew marks on the paper I folded them in. After many years, I threw them away. There is nothing of them left in the box now. There is only a faint, strong smell of dried acacia, that reminds me of that summer afternoon. But the rose is still there.
It has been many years. Then, I was a girl of fifteen, and I went to visit in a small country town. It was two days' journey from the nearest village; the people there were mostly men. A few were married and had their wives and children with them, but most were single.
There was only one young girl there when I came. She was about seventeen, fair, and rather large. She had large, dreamy blue eyes and wavy, light hair; full, rather heavy lips, until she smiled; then her face broke into dimples, and all her white teeth shone.
