rose mallow

The Rose-Mallow alone was too busily employed in climbing the wall to observe what circumstance was disturbing the flower-garden.

They were screened by a tangle of rose-mallow, and there John Woolfolk seated himself—waiting.

Often the sad music seemed to be the voice of her lover; then the tones softened to a sigh; it was the Rose-Mallow's dying sob.

As she walked, weeping, beside the once brilliant border, she saw the Rose-Mallow lying half-dead across her path.