It was a month after the eventful day for the Blossoms, and Saturday
morning. Rose, with her sleeves rolled up above her elbows, was
kneading bread and singing, as she worked:--
"'Oh, a king would have loved and left thee,
And away thy sweet love cast:
But I am thine
Whilst the stars shall shine,--
To the--last--'"
Just here, she gave the round mass of dough a toss up to the ceiling and
caught it deftly on her right fist as it came down, finishing her octave
with high C, while again the bread spun aloft and dropped in safety on
her left fist--"to the last!"