"Remain then as you are, sweet one. It is midnight. I must proclaim the gracious news of the coming of Christ. When His birthday wanes I will visit you again." He kissed her tenderly, and there was a lull in his song as he gathered his strength, spread his mighty wings, and took flight. The flower was lonelier than before, now that her friend had departed. Daylight came. The bells rang out their old story of peace and gladness. Children passed, some with sprigs of holly in their coats. There was a summons at the gate in the garden of the next house; a voice said, "A Merry Christmas," and another answered, "God bless you to-day and always!" "Ah, if human lips would say that to me!" thought the flower. "If I could only bring a little joy into a human life!" Her heart ached, for she knew that she would die when the clocks tolled midnight, announcing that Christ's birthday had passed away. What was that? Are stars visible in the daytime? A little brown face was pressed against the railings, and two brilliant eyes gazed at her. It was a boy dressed in ragged velveteen breeches, and thin discoloured shirt. Curls of black hair surrounded his face. He climbed over the railings, knelt down on the sodden grass, and gazed at the Christmas Rose. "Ah!" thought Rica, "at last, here is something to remind Marietta of Italy, although this fair blossom breathing here in a London garden is far sweeter than Italy's flowers. It must be the Infant Jesus' rose which blooms on His birthday." His brown fingers closed round the stalk, and the flower felt a thrill of joy as he plucked her; but all the leaves bowed to the ground, and rent the air with sad moans. Rica carried the Christmas Rose far away from her birthplace, past the Park, through the slushy streets, on--on--until the character of the houses changed. Everything grew gradually sordid. Drunken men reeled against each other, and ill-clad children played about at the mouths of foul alleys. The Christmas Rose clung tighter to the little brown hand, and drew comfort from the tender grasp. As Rica turned the corner of the street which led to his wretched home he ran against an artist who was sketching some crazy old houses. "Mind where you are going, my boy! Why! What a beautiful Christmas Rose! How much do you want for it?" he asked, looking at the flower, and not noticing Rica's handsome face. "I cannot part with it, sir. It is for my sister. She only came from Italy in November, and she has been fretting so because we are in trouble. I think that this beautiful flower may comfort her." Edward Thornhill was touched, and as he looked into the boy's face he was almost startled by its beauty. It belonged to the sunny skies of Italy, with its brilliant eyes, olive skin, luxuriant hair, and red lips. As he scanned the little Italian's countenance, he also remarked his poverty, and placing his hand on Rica's shoulder he asked,-- "Are you very poor, my child?"