47 
foot of that tall hawthorn, my water-cousin Hotto- 
nia. One who loves her has said, ‘ Her long, white, 
hair-like roots strike deep into the bed of the stream, 
her blue and white flowers rise upon their hollow 
stems, just above the surface of the water; and 
beneath, in the shade of her tufted leaves, the little 
Periwinkle moors his pretty shell.’ 
“ My own name,” said the little Violet, after a 
moment’s pause, is Viola Velutina. I think yours 
must be Viola Celestina.” 
At that moment the sun sunk behind the hill, 
and the lowly flower drooped her head and ceased 
speaking ; but her fragrant words lingered on the 
air, and it was long before Mary turned from her 
celestial loveliness to the gay Anemones that were 
nodding their heads at her. 
If Mary had been asked at that moment what 
flower she should like to be, she would surely have 
