“Remember,” said the good dame as she heaped the basket with flowers, “you are our own daughter; your name is Marguerite Doudel; you have just begun to help your parents by selling bouquets, and turn first to his excellency the governor, who perhaps will let you carry a few violets to your father, one of his own faithful guards.” “I know, I know; there is little danger that I shall forget,” said Marguerite, breathless with agitation; and pale as marble, she went forth to her great work. “Will you sell me some of your roses?” Marguerite had walked some distance from home, forgetful in her intense excitement of the character she had assumed, when these words fell on her ear, uttered in a sound so sweet and low that the heart in her young bosom leaped for the first time to the voice of man. Marguerite stopped in her swift walk and lifted her eyes to the speaker, a young man in citizen’s dress, which he wore with a grace befitting our best ideas of a nobleman. His eyes, soft and deep as a mountain spring, were bent upon her in smiling admiration, for the flowers on her arm were scarcely more beautiful than Marguerite appeared that morning. “Will you sell me some of your flowers?” the young man repeated, lifting his hat. Marguerite drew a deep breath, and turned her fascinated eyes from the wonderful beauty of that head and face. “What shall I give you monsieur,” she faltered, trembling all over with a sensation of delight that pure soul had never felt before. “It shall be a white moss rose, I think,” said the young man, “can you find one in your basket?” Marguerite’s hand was instantly searching among her flowers, from whence it brought forth a lovely moss rose. “Will this please monsieur?” she said, holding up the rose by its long, flexible stem. The pallor had left her face then, and a soft bloom came over it, more exquisite than a blush. She had forgotten even the Bastille, and her father. “Will it please me, oh yes—one seldom sees two objects so beautiful in a day.” Marguerite cast down her eyes, and the rose shook in her hand. Something more sweet and subtle than its breath had entered her heart. The young man’s face brightened all over. He took the flower and placed it gently between his vest and the snow-white linen that covered his bosom. “To-morrow it will be withered,” he said; “no matter, your basket will be full again then, and I shall not fail to know when you pass this way.” He took a piece of silver from his pocket, and held it irresolutely. It seemed like sacrilege to offer money to a delicate creature like that. Stealthily, and half-ashamed of the act, he dropped the money into her basket. Marguerite saw the act, and the silver seemed to have fallen upon her heart. She looked up with a hot flush overspreading her face, but remembering that to sell was her business, dropped her eyes again, and instantly their lashes were heavy with tears.