day, and I was quite pathetic upon the subject, telling her the loss your favourite would sustain, and so forth; and she said how delighted she would be to have it in her green-house, it is in such a fine state now, so full of buds. I told her I knew you would like to give it to her, you are so fond of Mrs. Marshall, you know.”
“Now, Kate, I am sorry, but I have otherwise engaged it.”
“Who can it be to? you have so few intimates here.”
“Oh, it is only one of my odd fancies.”
“But do tell me, Florence.”
“Well, cousin, you know the pale little girl to whom we give sewing.”
“What! little Mary Stephens? How absurd! Florence, this is just another of your motherly, old-maidish ways—dressing dolls for poor children, making bonnets and knitting socks for all the dirty little babies in the region round about. I do believe you have made more calls in those two vile, ill-smelling alleys back of our house, than ever you have in Chestnut street, though you know everybody is half dying to see you; and now, to crown all, you must give this choice little bijou to a sempstress-girl, when one of your most intimate friends, in your own class, would value it so highly. What in the world can people in their circumstances want with flowers?”
“Just the same as I do,” replied Florence, calmly. “Have you not noticed that the little girl never comes here without looking wistfully at the opening buds? And, don’t you remember, the other morning she asked me so prettily if I would let her mother come and see it, she was so fond of flowers?”
“But, Florence, only think of this rare flower standing on a table with ham, eggs, cheese, and flour, and stifled in that close little room where Mrs. Stephens and her daughter manage to wash, iron, cook, and nobody knows what besides.”
“Well, Kate, and if I were obliged to live in one coarse room, and wash, and iron, and cook, as you say—if I had to spend every moment of my time in toil, with no prospect from my window but
