Well to be sure it was only a rose-bud—but as Harry descried it sitting so proudly upon its pure and lovely throne, something whispered that with that tiny rose his fate was linked—was it thornless, or should he wounded and complaining henceforth bid adieu to happiness! May caught the glance of the master, and blushed and trembled just as if she perfectly comprehended what was passing through his mind, and as suddenly the little rose-bud was invested with new and tenfold value. She would fain have hid it next her heart from the careless gaze of her young associates, for she felt that it had now become a sacred thing which their touch would profane. Suddenly, May bent her head over her desk, and shook her long raven curls over her blushing cheek, as she heard a well-known step behind her, and felt that the large eloquent eyes of the master were fixed upon her. But for the throbbing of her own little heart, she could have heard the rapid pulsation of his, while his breath almost stirred the beautiful ringlet which rested upon her bosom. Rapidly her little hand now moved over the slate, glancing to the right and left, tracing figure upon figure, as though its mistress had not a thought, but was occupied in deciphering the rules of Coleman. It was a most puzzling sum—never had she attempted one so difficult—in vain she erased—in vain began again. Of course it was all wrong, and so Harry, as in duty bound, took the pencil and sat down by her side to extricate her from her difficulties—as a school-master you know, there was no other way! But, dear me—instead of looking upon the slate, his eyes never fell a bit lower than that little rose-bud—a pretty teacher, to be sure! “_Ahem_—that is a beautiful rose, Miss May!” “Yes, sir.” “You—you are fond of flowers, I see.” “Yes, sir.” “They are a favorite study of mine—are you much versed in the language of flowers, my—_ahem_—Miss May?” “They always speak to me of God’s love and goodness,” replied May, as demurely as if she had been answering her minister. “True, dear Miss May,” said Harry. “They are indeed, as the poet says—‘the smiles of angels’ blessing and cheering us on our earthly pilgrimage—but aside from this heavenly mission, the poet has also bestowed upon them another language: “‘In eastern lands they talk in flowers, And they tell in a garland their loves and cares, Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers, On its leaves a mystic language bears.’ “Is it so—do you believe this, May?” May made no answer, but bent her head still lower over the book before her, and the little rose-bud trembled as though moved by some breath of summer. “The—the rose, May,” continued Harry, “seems to have been ever a favorite and expressive flower of this mystic garland: “‘The rose is the sign of joy and love, Young blushing love in its earliest dawn.’” There was a pause. “May—May, will you give me the rose?”