"One red rose is all I want," cried the Nightingale, "only one red rose!
"If you want a red rose," said the Tree, "you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood.
"Death is a great price to pay for a red rose," cried the Nightingale, "and Life is very dear to all.
"No." Rose felt a sudden fear; she sensed a lack of pity in Martin, an unwillingness even to try to understand her conflicting emotions.
He knew tears were used as weapons by women, but why in the world should Rose need any sort of weapon on the first day of their marriage?
I'm just a little nervous." Rose began to cry afresh.
"I've heard of phebe-birds; but I don't believe the real ones could do that," laughed Rose, adding, as she watched with interest the scattering of dabs of soft soap over the bricks, "May I stay and see you work?
"Yes, indeed, if you want to," answered Phebe, wringing out her cloth in a capable sort of way that impressed Rose very much.
I'd love to do it, only aunt wouldn't like it, I suppose," said Rose, quite taken with the new employment.
'It is,' replied Rose, 'that you must endeavour to forget me; not as your old and dearly-attached companion, for that would wound me deeply; but, as the object of your love.
There was a pause, during which, Rose, who had covered her face with one hand, gave free vent to her tears.
'And your reasons, Rose,' he said, at length, in a low voice;