Rosalie had just finished adjusting the bed-clothes around her father, when steps and voices were heard ascending the stairs. She glanced at the precious rose-tree, and with eager hand hastened to draw the curtain before the little recess where it stood, which she had scarcely time to do, before the door was suddenly opened, without even the ceremony of a rap, and a matronly lady, dressed in rich and fashionable costume, and attended by a female servant, entered the apartment. Rosalie instantly divined the cause of their appearance in her humble abode, for in the person of the latter she recognized one of the women who, a few days previous, had come there with a desire to purchase the cherished roses, whose bloom she watched with interest and solicitude. For an instant she stood silent and embarrassed before the intruders, then recovering herself, with that graceful courtesy which ever distinguishes the well-bred and refined, she drew forward a chair and invited the lady to sit. With a slight and condescending nod, Madame de Rochemont, for it was the mother of Alicia, took possession of the offered seat, at the same time casting a glance of eager inquiry around the apartment. As she did so, her eye was attracted by the lovely wax flowers which lay upon the table, and bending toward them, “Bless me!” she exclaimed, “what exquisite flowers!” then, as a nearer view revealed to her their true quality, she added—“and of wax too, I declare! Are they for sale—and do you make them?” she asked, looking at Rosalie. “I make them, Madame, but these are already disposed of,” replied Rosalie. “I shall gladly, however, make others if they are wished for, and as many as may be ordered.” “Oh, it is your business, is it,” said the lady superciliously; “and pray, what may be your charge for a bunch like this?” “Only a pound, Madame,” answered Rosalie, quietly. “_Only_ a pound!” repeated Madame de Rochemont, with a sneering emphasis on the “_only_.” “Very moderate, truly! and here are two camelias with a bud, a Provence rose, and a sprig of myrtle—why you must be making your fortune at this rate, child!” “Considering the labor and expense attending the preparation of the material, for I color and mould the wax myself, the profit is very trifling,” said Rosalie. “Besides,” she added, “I have received few orders for the flowers, as I am almost a stranger in the city, and have commenced making them for sale only since my father’s illness.” Her voice slightly trembled as she made this allusion, but her emotion passed unheeded. “Were your prices more moderate you would have more orders than you could execute,” said Madame de Rochemont. “For instance, if you consent to charge but ten shillings, instead of twenty, for a bouquet like this, which is enough in all conscience, I will take one myself, and procure you at least a dozen purchasers among my own private friends.”