THE TEA ROSE. 
BY MRS. H. E. BEECHER STONE. 
There it stood, in its little green vase, on a light ebony stand, 
in the window of the drawing room. The rich satin curtains with 
their costly fringes swept down on either side of it, and around glit¬ 
tered every rare and fanciful trifle which wealth can afford to lux¬ 
ury, and yet that simple rose was the fairest of them all. So pure 
it looked—its white leaves just touched with that delicious creamy 
tint, peculiar to its kind, its cup so full, so perfect, its head bending 
as if it were sinking and melting away in its own richness—oh, 
when did man ever make anything like the living perfect flower! 
But the sunlight that streamed through the window revealed 
something fairer than the rose. Reclined on an ottoman, in a deep 
recess, and intently engaged with a hook, lay what seemed, the 
living counterpart of that so lovely a flower. That cheek so pale, 
so spiritual, the face so full of high thought, the fair forehead, the 
long, downcast lashes, and the expression of the beautiful mouth, so 
sorrowful yet so subdued and sweet—it seemed like the picture of 
a dream. 
“ Florence,—Florence ! ” echoed a merry and musical voice in a 
sweet impatient tone. Turn your head, reader, and you will see a 
dark and sparkling maiden, the very model of some little wilful elf, 
born of mischief and motion, with a dancing eye, a foot that scarcely 
seemed to touch the carpet, and a smile so multiplied by dimples, 
that it seemed like a thousand smiles at once. “ Come Florence, I 
