Ever since he had seen her dancing, he had spoken to her betimes, loved her, believed in her, planted a special yellow rose, just for her. And now she had let him down.
He seldom came out of his room at Brandy Hall. Rarely talked to anyone. Ate very little.
One morning his maidservant, Daffodil, came bursting in, crying, “Mister Frodo, look out your window!”
The girl practically had to pull him out of bed. Reluctantly Frodo looked out, saying, “This better be good.”
There, dewy and glistening in the morning sun, was that very same yellow rose.