child, almost forgot that she had a headache, and thought, as she sipped her evening cup of tea, that she felt stronger than she had done for some time.
That rose! its sweet influence died not with the first day. Through all the long cold winter, the watching, tending, cherishing of that flower awakened a thousand pleasant trains of thought, that beguiled the sameness and weariness of their life. Every day the fair, growing thing put forth some fresh beauty—a leaf, a bud, a new shoot, and constantly awakened fresh enjoyment in its possessors. As it stood in the window, the passer-by would sometimes stop and gaze, attracted by its beauty, and then proud and happy was Mary; nor did even the serious and careworn widow notice with indifference this tribute to the beauty of their favourite.
But little did Florence think, when she bestowed the gift, that there twined about it an invisible thread that reached far and brightly into the web of her destiny.
One cold afternoon in early spring, a tall and graceful gentleman called at the lowly room to pay for the making of some linen by the inmates. He was a stranger and wayfarer, recommended through the charity of some of Mrs. Stephens’s patrons. As he turned to go, his eye rested admiringly on the rose-tree, and he stopped to gaze at it.
“How beautiful!” said he.
“Yes,” said little Mary, “and it was given to us by a lady as sweet and beautiful as that is.”
“Ah!” said the stranger, turning upon her a pair of bright dark eyes, pleased and rather struck by the communication; “and how came she to give it to you, my little girl?”
“Oh, because we are poor, and mother is sick, and we never can have anything pretty. We used to have a garden once, and we loved flowers so much, and Miss Florence found it out, and so she gave us this.”
“Florence!” echoed the stranger.
“Yes—Miss Florence l’Estrange—a beautiful lady. They say
