For an instant the girl’s gaze seemed fascinated by so bright a vision, then with an agitation visible in her whole frame, she rapidly crossed the floor and paused before the _fauteuil_ in which sat Madame de Rochemont. That lady’s native boldness and hauteur seemed to desert her at the appearance of the young girl—her face grew scarlet through her rouge, and her manner exhibited the utmost disorder and embarrassment. Grayson, on the contrary, who stood behind her mistress, assumed a look of fierce defiance when the object she had so wantonly wronged unexpectedly presented herself. But Rosalie, regardless of every thing save the one purpose she had come hither to accomplish, addressed herself immediately with the utmost simplicity and directness to Madame de Rochemont. “You remember, Madame,” she said, “the object of your visit to me this morning, but perhaps you are not aware that after your departure your servant, having informed herself of my absence, stole back and rifled my precious rose-tree! There are its flowers,” pointing to Alicia, “and I have come to ask that they may be restored to me. They did not bloom for the brow of beauty, but have been watered with tears and cherished for the departed.” “Grayson,” said Madame de Rochemont, fanning herself violently, and without deigning a reply to Rosalie—“Grayson, she is a mad creature—ring the bell and bid Atkins take her away.” “Pardon me, Madame, if I countermand your order,” said Captain Clairville. “Let us, at least, give this young girl a fair hearing before we judge and send her away.” Rosalie raised her soft eyes, full of gratitude, toward him, and that speaking look strengthened his resolve to see that amends were made her for the injury of which she complained. Rosalie, without heeding this interruption, resumed her pleading. “It is for my father’s sake, Madame, that I desire these flowers—they are associated in his mind with my mother, and now that his intellect is wandering—that he is dying—for oh, I fear it is so, he bids me bring them to him that he may have peace.” “How absurd!” ejaculated Madame de Rochemont—“the girl is an impostor, and has some end to serve by such behavior.” “Oh, Madame, the scene you witnessed this morning must assure you of my truth,” said Rosalie, tears which she could no longer restrain falling from her eyes—“I ask only for one cluster of those roses that I may lay them on my father’s pillow, and see him smile upon me in his last moments.” “Here is money, girl,” said Madame de Rochemont, with the coarseness which characterized her, “but the flowers form an important part of my daughter’s dress and I will not consent to its being spoiled for such a whim.” At this insult Rosalie could no longer command herself—a bright blush of wounded pride and shame overspread her face, and covering it with both hands she bowed down her head and wept.