106 THE FLORAL TELEGRAPH. 
profuse, and so intense in its colour ? 
that is the real tomb of my adopted 
children. It was there that their 
commingled life’s blood was shed. It 
was that little spot of earth that 
drank up thirstily their precious 
blood, when it was warm, nay, in¬ 
stinct, with life and love. And that 
is the monument; those rich, stately, 
and peculiar flowers that rise in the 
midst of the more lowly floral groups, 
and which I saw you so attentively 
contemplating when I did myself 
the honour to address you.” 
Here again a change came o’er the 
spirit of my dream I shall not say, 
because it was no dream, and that 
