LETTER LVIII. 



THE YBIiLUW ROSES, 



Here is a yellow rose-tree wHcli reminds me of a story. 



I went one evening, two years ago, to pass a few hours at 

 the hoHse of an old, amiable, intellectual and indulgent lady, 

 who lives near me ; she is passionately fond of flowers, and 

 you can. scarcely guess how much coquetry I exercise in 

 making bouquets for her; how delighted I am with her 

 astonishment when I carry her a flower she is not acquainted 

 with, or one that is not common in our country. 



On my arrival there yesterday, I found with her an old 

 gentleman, who, about a year since, took possession of a large 

 property left to him by a distant relation, upon the condition 

 of his bearing the name of it, and who is conseqiiently called 

 M. Desooudraies. 



He got introduced to my old frien3, and I soon had reason 

 to be jealous of hia assiduities; they quickly conceived a 



