For a month before Miss Myrover's death Sophy had been watching her rosebush--the one that bore the yellow roses--for the first buds of spring, and when these appeared had awaited impatiently their gradual unfolding. But not until her teacher's death had they become full-blown roses. When Miss Myrover died, Sophy determined to pluck the roses and lay them on her coffin. Perhaps, she thought, they might even put them in her hand or on her breast. For Sophy remembered Miss Myrover's thanks and praise when she had brought her the yellow roses the spring before. On the morning of the day set for the funeral Sophy washed her face until it shone, combed and brushed her hair with painful conscientiousness, put on her best frock, plucked her yellow roses, and, tying them with the treasured ribbon her teacher had given her, set out for Miss Myrover's home. She went round to the side gate--the house stood on a corner--and stole up the path to the kitchen. A colored woman, whom she did not know, came to the door. "W'at yer want, chile?" she inquired. "Kin I see Miss Ma'y?" asked Sophy timidly. "I don' know, honey. Ole Miss Myrover say she don' want no cullud folks roun' de house endyoin' dis fun'al. I'll look an' see if she's roun' de front room, whar de co'pse is. You sed-down heah an' keep still, an' ef she's upstairs maybe I kin git yer in dere a minute. Ef I can't, I kin put yo' bokay 'mongs' de res', whar she won't know nuthin' erbout it." A moment after she had gone there was a step in the hall, and old Mrs. Myrover came into the kitchen. "Dinah!" she said in a peevish tone. "Dinah!" Receiving no answer, Mrs. Myrover peered around the kitchen, and caught sight of Sophy. "What are you doing here?" she demanded. "I--I'm-m waitin' ter see de cook, ma'am," stammered Sophy. "The cook isn't here now. I don't know where she is. Besides, my daughter is to be buried to-day, and I won't have any one visiting the servants until the funeral is over. Come back some other day, or see the cook at her own home in the evening." She stood waiting for the child to go, and under the keen glance of her eyes Sophy, feeling as though she had been caught in some disgraceful act, hurried down the walk and out of the gate, with her bouquet in her hand. "Dinah," said Mrs. Myrover, when the cook came back, "I don't want any strange people admitted here to-day. The house will be full of our friends, and we have no room for others." "Yas'm," said the cook. She understood perfectly what her mistress meant; and what the cook thought about her mistress was a matter of no consequence.