The next day, when Maurice saw his raspberry-plants scattered upon the ground, and his favourite tulip broken, he was in much astonishment, and, for some moments, angry; but anger, with him, never lasted long. He was convinced that all this must be owing to some accident or mistake. He could not believe that anyone could be so malicious as to injure him on purpose—“And even if they did all this on purpose to vex me,” said he to himself, “the best thing I can do, is, not to let it vex me. Forgive and forget.” This temper of mind Maurice was more happy in enjoying than he could have been made, without it, by the possession of all the tulips in Holland. Tulips were, at this time, things of great consequence in the estimation of the country several miles round where Maurice and Arthur lived. There was a florist’s feast to be held at the neighbouring town, at which a prize of a handsome set of gardening-tools was to be given to the person who could produce the finest flower of its kind. A tulip was the flower which was thought the finest the preceding year, and consequently numbers of people afterwards endeavoured to procure tulip-roots, in hopes of obtaining the prize this year. Arthur’s tulip was beautiful. As he examined it from day to day, and every day thought it improving, he longed to thank his friend Maurice for it; and he often mounted into his crab-tree, to look into Maurice’s garden, in hopes of seeing his tulip also in full bloom and beauty. He never could see it. The day of the florist’s feast arrived, and Oakly went with his son and the fine tulip to the place of meeting. It was on a spacious bowling-green. All the flowers of various sorts were ranged upon a terrace at the upper end of the bowling-green; and, amongst all this gay variety, the tulip which Maurice had given to Arthur appeared conspicuously beautiful. To the owner of this tulip the prize was adjudged; and, as the handsome garden-tools were delivered to Arthur, he heard a well known voice wish him joy. He turned, looked about him, and saw his friend Maurice. “But, Maurice, where is your own tulip?” said Mr. Oakly; “I thought, Arthur, you told me that he kept one for himself.” “So I did,” said Maurice; “but somebody (I suppose by accident) broke it.” “Somebody! who?” cried Arthur and Mr. Oakly at once. “Somebody who threw the raspberry-plants back again over the wall,” replied Maurice. “That was me—that somebody was me,” said Oakly. “I scorn to deny it; but I did not intend to break your tulip, Maurice.” “Dear Maurice,” said Arthur—“you know I may call him dear Maurice—now you are by, papa; here are all the garden-tools; take them, and welcome.” “Not one of them,” said Maurice, drawing back. “Offer them to the father—offer them to Mr. Grant,” whispered Oakly; “he’ll take them, I’ll answer for it.”