“But Captain Clairville declares I am no true goddess without them,” said Alicia—“that the Dutchess of S—— had the loveliest crown of fragrant roses on her head, besides boquets of them in her hands and on her bosom, and that to be seen with these things of cloth and wire would make me ridiculous. No, it will never do; I must and will have real roses—roses! roses! Ferris, for the Goddess Flora, or I will go to bed and not get up again for a year.” “Oh pray, Miss, don’t talk so,” said Ferris. “I am sure I would get roses for you if I could—but where upon earth are they to be had in the heart of this terrible winter? All the gardeners say theirs have frozen, and for that matter, Miss, I was near being frozen myself the bitter day you sent me out to ransack the suburbs for them—into every alley and corner I went without finding so much as a bud to bless myself with, though Dame Paton says hers never failed before, and in the coldest weather the Misses Franchettes were never known to be without them.” “But you said something, Ferris, of a rose-tree which a poor girl had in some out of the way place, I forget where. Pray why cannot you get from them the flowers I want, and which indeed I must and will have?” “Oh, la! Miss, who would have the heart to rob that bush? It blossoms but once a year, and is the only treasure of a poor girl who watches its flowers to lay them on her mother’s grave.” “How doleful! Is it a sad-looking rose, Ferris?” asked Alicia. “Oh no, Miss, quite gay, and the loveliest white, with just the faintest blush you ever saw,” said Ferris—“at least, so the buds looked which were just bursting open—perfect wreaths of them, which would bring ever so much money if the girl would only sell them; but no, she will not part with one, saving them all till the anniversary of her mother’s death, when she strews them over her grave, and they say it is a lovely sight to see the heap of snow which covers it all of a blush with the living roses.” “How strange! quite sentimental, I declare,” said Alicia, adjusting her veil into more becoming folds before the mirror as she spoke. “But, then,” she added, “what a sin to throw away such lovely flowers; just now, too, when there is nowhere else a rose to be had, and so many would be thankful for them at any price. I am sure they would adorn the living more than the dead, for exposed to this frightful cold they cannot even beautify the grave many minutes before they are changed to ice.”