I 
T H E T EA ROSE . 49 
tending 1 , and cherishing of that flower, awakened a thousand pleas¬ 
ant trains of thought that beguiled the sameness and weariness of 
their life. Every day the fair growing thing put forth some fresh 
beauty; a bud—a leaf—or a new shoot, constantly excited fresh 
delight in its possessors. As it stood in the window, the passer by 
would sometimes stop and gaze, attracted by its beauty, and then 
how proud and happy was Mary, nor did even the serious and care¬ 
worn widow, notice with indifference when she saw the eve of a 
chance visitor rest admiringly on their favourite. 
But little did Florence know when she gave that gift, that there 
was twined around it an invisible thread, that reached far as brightly 
into the web of her destiny. 
One cold afternoon in early Spring, a tall, graceful young man 
called at the lowly room to receive and pay for some linen which 
the widow had been making up. He was a wayfarer and stranger 
in the place, recommended through the charity of some of Mrs. 
Stephens’ patrons. His eye, as he was going out, rested admiringly 
upon the Rose; he stopped and looked earnestly at it. 
“ It was given to us,” said little Mary, quickly, “ by a young lady 
as sweet and beautiful as that is.” 
“ Ah ! ” said the stranger, turning and fixing upon her a pair of 
very bright eyes, pleased and rather struck with the simplicity of 
the communication, “ and how came she to give it to you my little 
girl ? ” 
“ Oh, because we are poor, and mother is sick, and we never can 
have any thing pretty. We used to have a garden once, and we 
loved flowers so much, and Miss Florence found all this out, and so 
she gave us this.” 
“ Florence ! ” echoed the stranger. 
“ Yes, Miss Florence l’Estrange, a beautiful young lady,—they 
say she was from foreign parts, though she speaks English just like 
any other lady, only sweeter.” 
