140 LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
vases of flowers, where the image of the Virgin was 
faintly lighted by a single lamp, knelt a girl of 
about eighteen, absorbed in devotion, and her dark 
eyes filled with tears. She was one of those nymph- 
like figures which the magic pencil of Angelica 
Kauffman was fond of transferring to the canvas. 
In her clasped hand she held a bouquet of clove 
carnations, tied with a silk ribbon, of the delightful 
colour of hope. With such devotion prays the 
saint in that masterpiece of Garofalo's, in the 
cathedral of Ferrara, in whose folded hands the artist 
in allusion to his own name has placed a nosegay 
of the same flowers. The morning was so lovely 
and the air so mild that I had left the caniage to 
follow me, and was walking forward alone. Near 
the chapel I seated myself on a mass of rock. The 
girl rose from prayer, and presently appeared a 
hale young man driving three loaded horses. The 
moment she saw him she flew into his arms. Not 
a word passed on either side. Amidst tears and 
kisses, she presented to him the bouquet of carna- 
tions with an inexpressible look of tenderness, 
strove to speak, but could not utter a word. The 
young man placed his flowers in the bosom with as 
