“Oh, Rosa, take good care of it, and we shall soon see it grow quickly.” “Can I take more care of it?” said she. “Indeed, I think of nothing else but the tulip.” “Of nothing else, Rosa? Why, now I shall grow jealous in my turn.” “Oh, you know that to think of the tulip is to think of you; I never lose sight of it. I see it from my bed, on awaking it is the first object that meets my eyes, and on falling asleep the last on which they rest. During the day I sit and work by its side, for I have never left my chamber since I put it there.” “You are right Rosa, it is your dowry, you know.” “Yes, and with it I may marry a young man of twenty-six or twenty-eight years, whom I shall be in love with.” “Don’t talk in that way, you naughty girl.” That evening Cornelius was one of the happiest of men. Rosa allowed him to press her hand in his, and to keep it as long as he would, besides which he might talk of his tulip as much as he liked. From that hour every day marked some progress in the growth of the tulip and in the affection of the two young people. At one time it was that the leaves had expanded, and at another that the flower itself had formed. Great was the joy of Cornelius at this news, and his questions succeeded one another with a rapidity which gave proof of their importance. “Formed!” exclaimed Cornelius, “is it really formed?” “It is,” repeated Rosa. Cornelius trembled with joy, so much so that he was obliged to hold by the grating. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed. Then, turning again to Rosa, he continued his questions. “Is the oval regular? the cylinder full? and are the points very green?” “The oval is almost one inch long, and tapers like a needle, the cylinder swells at the sides, and the points are ready to open.” Two days after Rosa announced that they were open. “Open, Rosa!” cried Cornelius. “Is the involucrum open? but then one may see and already distinguish----” Here the prisoner paused, anxiously taking breath. “Yes,” answered Rosa, “one may already distinguish a thread of different colour, as thin as a hair.” “And its colour?” asked Cornelius, trembling. “Oh,” answered Rosa, “it is very dark!” “Brown?” “Darker than that.” “Darker, my good Rosa, darker? Thank you. Dark as----” “Dark as the ink with which I wrote to you.” Cornelius uttered a cry of mad joy. Then, suddenly stopping and clasping his hands, he said,-- “Oh, there is not an angel in heaven that may be compared to you, Rosa!” “Indeed!” said Rosa, smiling at his enthusiasm. “Rosa, you have worked with such ardour,--you have done so much for me! Rosa, my tulip is about to flower, and it will flower black! Rosa, Rosa, you are the most perfect being on earth!” “After the tulip, though.” “Ah! be quiet, you malicious little creature, be quiet! For shame! Do not spoil my pleasure. But tell me, Rosa,--as the tulip is so far advanced, it will flower in two or three days, at the latest?” “To-morrow, or the day after.”