“Do you know that man?” asked the landlady; “he is the most dissipated fellow here, and a gambler by profession.” “And his companions,” added the friend, “are low people from the capital.” Poor Theodora! with difficulty she kept from falling, but the paleness which overspread her face alarmed the good landlady, who hurried her into the house and administered all kinds of restoratives. When she was alone tears came to her relief—“Ah!” sobbed she, “how could such fair, earnest words come from a heart so vile. But I will pluck this love from my heart, and then farewell peace and hope in this life.” “Yes, let us go from this dreadful place,” said she to her father when she had told him all; “you are quite well again. And this ring—he gave it to me as a pledge of his truth; take the glowing jewel from me, father dear, it burns into my soul.” “My poor child,” said her father, “you will indeed be happier in our quiet home; as for this ring, it could only have been given to you by one to whom thousands are as nothing; only by some wretched gambler. And all this mystery that he has preserved. Oh, yes! I see it all. Thank God, my child, that he has delivered you from a gambler, that he has separated your lot from his, for whom there is no love, no home, who can live only in the heated air of the saloon, amidst the despairing cries of the losers and the greedy exclamations of the few whom chance favors! Pack up every thing; the day after to-morrow we will set out for dear, quiet R——, where Heaven will rain down peace upon thy heart, as it has already poured its blessing of health upon me.” Thus with affectionate words did the father drown, at least, the voice of sorrow in his poor child’s heart, and for the first time, at the approach of evening, she accompanied him into his sanctum, the garden. But the brilliant colors of the flowers pained her with the contrast between them and her own heart. Red is the color of happy love, and ah! Theodora, these are not for thee—there under the weeping-willow blooms thy flower, its leaves are the color of the blue above, and although the faithless waves at its foot are always flowing on, its image is always mirrored in them; so, Theodora, will thy love remain while the river of thy life flows on, and faith will ever repeal in thy heart—“Forget me not.” “_Banksia serrata_,” cried her father joyfully, and led her to the beautiful plant. She gazed enchanted. Here was no gaudy mixture of colors, no dazzling brilliancy. Gentleness seemed to breathe in the fragrance wafted from the flower, that heavenly blue—it was her own forget-me-not exalted to honor. Her eyes filled with tears, the sight had comforted her, and she loitered quietly back through the long promenade with her father; outshining in her simple beauty the crowd of fashionables collected there at that hour. “There he is,” said her father, trying to elude the recipient of his morning’s bounty.