that this garden-traveller was a very ethereal personage, and that milk and honey and a few sweet roots would satisfy his simple wants, and that he had no more idea of trafficking in a market than a hard man of business has in spending hours watching a beetle upon a leaf. But let not the reader continue to labour under this grievous mistake. M. Karr is quite up to the market value of every bud that breaks within the charmed circle of his garden at Nice. He cultivates the poetry for his books, but he does not neglect his ledger. In the spring, when, according to Mr. Tennyson, "a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast," and "young men's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love," M. Alphonse Karr, poet and florist, opens his flower-shop. Carrie had taken up the newspaper which had moved the enthusiasm of her elder sisters. Her eyes fell on the following advertisement:-- "By an arrangement agreed upon, M. ALPHONSE KARR, of Nice, sends direct, gratuitously, and post free, either a box containing Herbes aux Turguoises, or a magnificent bouquet of Parma Violets, to every person who, before the end of March, shall become a subscriber to the monthly review entitled Life in the Country. A specimen number will be sent on receipt of fifteen sous in postage stamps." This is Alphonse Karr's magnificent spring assortment--his Grand Occasion. "So you see, Mr. Cockayne," said his wife, "this Mr. Karr, whose book about the garden--twaddle, _I_ call it--you used to think so very fine and poetic, is just a market-gardener and nothing more. He is positively an advertising tradesman." "Nothing more, mamma, I assure you," said Sophonisba. "I remember at school that one of the French young ladies, Mademoiselle de la Rosiere, told me that when her sister was married, the bride and all the bridesmaids had Alphonse Karr's _bouquets_. It seems that the mercenary creature advertises to sell ball or wedding _bouquets_, which he manages to send to Paris quite fresh in little boxes, for a pound apiece." "Do you hear that?" said Mrs. Cockayne, addressing her husband. "This is your pet, sir, who was so fond of his beetles! Why, the man would sell the nightingales out of his trees, if he could catch them, I've no doubt." "The story is a little jarring, I confess," Pater said. "But after all, why shouldn't he sell the flowers also, when he sells the pretty things he writes about them?" "Upon my word, you're wonderful. You try to creep out of everything. But what is that you were reading, my dear Sophonisba, about the _grande occasion_ near the Louvre Hotel? I dare say it's a great deal more interesting than Mr. Karr and his violets. I haven't patience with your papa's affectation. What was it we saw, my dear, in the Rue Saint Honore? The 'Butterfly's Chocolate'?"