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A LOVELY FLOWER GARDEN. 
During a pleasant walk upon a lovely day last 
summer, when earth and sky were radiant with beauty, 
I passed a small but neatly arranged flower-garden, 
and stopped for a moment to enjoy its beauties; but 
among all the fair blossoms that met my gaze, my at¬ 
tention was most drawn to a bed of lovely Pansies. 
Lifting their large beautiful heads above the mass of 
dark green foliage, royal in purple and gold, and run¬ 
ning through all the degrees of shade to the palest 
violet, it was a picture to become ineffaceably fixed in 
my mind, and has made me richer and happier for its 
possession, and I still often turn back to it with the 
greatest pleasure. 
I have often, when weary with toil and laden with 
care, found rest and strength, and drank in deep 
draughts of delight, in gazing for a few moments upon 
the unfolding beauties of my own loved flowers. What 
a pleasure to watch the gradual development from the 
tiny shoot to the full-grown plant with its wealth of 
leaves and blossoms, often filling the air with exquis¬ 
ite fragrance. What more beautiful sight can there 
be than a bed of gorgeous Verbenas, glowing in all 
the shades of scarlet, crimson and purple, intermingled, 
with here and there starry clusters of pure white ; or 
of velvety Petunias with their rich coloring and deli¬ 
cate veinings and shadings, such as only the hand of 
the great Artist could pencil. 
But radiant as are these summer beauties, there are 
so many choice and beautiful perennials that adorn 
our gardens that we must give them their due share of 
admiration ; and almost unrivaled among them stand 
the Lilies, the queenly lilies. Surely, Solomon, in all 
his glory, was not arrayed like one of these. Tall 
and stately, some waving their yellow cups like golden 
censers in the summer air, some gleaming out white 
and pure as some fair spirit, so filling all the air with 
their fragrance, while others lift their royal heads, so 
glorious with brilliant coloring of scarlet and purple 
and gold, as to transcend all powers of description. 
Of these lovely flowers, I have several varieties in 
my own garden, some of which are common and old- 
fashioned, and others more rare, but all are very beau¬ 
tiful to me. 
And now I must say a few words for the Roses, for 
among all the gems of the flower-garden, these are, to 
me, the fairest and sweetest. So rich are they in per¬ 
fume, so perfect in form and coloring, combining so 
many rare and delicate tints, and possessing so many 
excellencies, that they stand almost alone in their 
beauty. Could I have but one kind or class of flowers 
for out-door culture, I should prefer Roses to all others. 
But dearly as I love them, from some unknown cause 
I have not been very successful in the culture, espe¬ 
cially house Roses. Some time ago, I purchased of 
a well known florist, several varieties, mostly Tea. 
After recovering from the effects of their long journey, 
they grew rapidly, putting out the most luxuriant 
foliage, and nearly all blossomed. Never will I forget 
my delight in watching the unfolding of those exquisite 
buds into the perfect flower, and inhaling their deli¬ 
cious fragrance. 
There was a Washington, with its clusters of snowy 
white ; a Madame Damazin, with its delicate creamy 
petals, softly tinted with rose; a Louis Pliillippe, of 
the richest, deepest crimson; a Madame Margotten, 
throwing out magnificent blossoms of golden yellow, 
with a deep pink centre, and a Duchess de Brabant, 
blushing very lovely amid the bright green foliage, 
and others that I will not take time to mention. 
But perhaps I bestowed too much care aad attention 
upon my favorites, for they were frail as fair, and very 
short-lived indeed. During the winter they began 
to droop, and lose their leaves, and pine away in spite 
of all my efforts to save them, until nearly all were 
dead; only my Marechal Neil and Duchess de Bra¬ 
bant remaining. These both produced some splendid 
blossoms in the summer, for all their slender and not 
very thrifty appearance, that were as beautiful as heart 
could wish. 
1 have been quite successful with my house plants 
this year, and though my collection is not very large, 
I have some fine plants, and they are a source of much 
pleasure to me, brightening many a lonely hour, while 
they furnish food for thought and study in their varied 
forms, habits, and needs for promoting growth and 
beauty. 
My plants are not numerous, it is true, but a few 
choice and well cared for, are preferable to a great 
number of worthless ones. I have an Achyranthus 
which has been especially admired by everyone. It is 
a large bushy plant, more than two feet in height, and 
combining every shade in its large beautiful leaves, 
from the pialest pink to the darkest crimson and ma¬ 
roon. It is, without exaggeration, a magnificent plant. 
I have some half dozen varieties of Fuchsias which 
are great favorites; a lovely double white, and one a 
soft pink and crimson, which, with its luxuriant 
growth and rich masses of dark shining foliage, is 
something truly splendid; and several others of the 
various shades of purple and crimson, which have paid 
well with their constant abundance of rich blossoms. 
My Geraniums also have been a source of both 
pride and pleasure. The beautiful tricolor, Mrs. Pol¬ 
lock, and the ivy-leaved Holly-wreath, and most lovely 
of all, a double one of the brightest and purest pink, 
the florets of which were each a perfect little rose, 
measuring nearly an inch and a half in diameter. I 
have quite a variety of Zonales, part of which are 
seedlings of my own raising, and are very beautiful 
both in leaf and flower; a few other pretty foliage 
plants, some seedling Heliotropes, a scarlet Salvia, and 
Chinese Primrose, with some baskets of drooping 
vines, make up my small collection. As to their cul¬ 
ture, so many useful suggestions and excellent methods 
have been given through the pages of the Cabinet, 
that I could tell nothing new, and will only say that I 
pot them in good rich soil, and water whenever the 
earth is dry, and the plants show a need of it (not 
at any regular times), using soft warm water, adding 
a little ammonia occasionally, and stirring the earth 
about the roots frequently to keep it mellow. 
And now I would only say to every weary, toiling 
one, to all who have many cares, and but few plea¬ 
sures, and still possess a love for the beautiful, it you 
have a spare foot of earth, or one sunny window, cul¬ 
tivate a few flowers, if it is only two or three varieties, 
and you will be amply repaid for all your trouble in 
their uufoldihg beauties. You will find rest and re¬ 
freshment for both body and mind, and in caring for 
them you will find only a pleasure, and better still, 
something that will lift the thoughts higher, and 
make them purer for their refining influence. May 
we all, whatever be our mission in life, do our work 
well and nobly, and at the same time not forget to 
love and cherish the beautiful things spread out before 
us in the great realm of matter, that a loving Father 
has so kindly and lavishly bestowed, and thus be drawn 
nearer to Him who has made them all and clothed the 
earth with such wondrous beauty. M. 
[Written specially for the Ladies’ Floral Cabinet.] 
By Augusta Larned. 
H 
CHAPTER IX. 
“ The many-colored threads of fate 
Are weaving webs of strange device.” 
It was near midnight in Finster’s cottage, and the tired 
mother lay asleep with her children, while Yirginie kept 
watch by the bedside of the sick boy. He had been rest¬ 
less and wakeful for hours, and the patient nurse had 
smoothed his pillow and given him cooling drinks, singing 
to him in a voice as low and sweet as the cooing of a 
dove. She had quieted the fever, at last, by her gentle, 
magnetic touch, and he was sleeping with the faintest 
dew of perspiration on his forehead, and one little hot 
hand clasped in hers. 
The shaded kerosene lamp burned low in a corner of 
the room. Yirginie sat in Mrs. Finster’s rocking-chair with 
her light hair unbound and falling about her shoulders. 
Her great blue eyes, so weary with weeping and watching, 
were wide open staring at the bickering shadows. She 
wondered if she should ever sleep again. How many hours 
was it since Bradley Halcourt had spoken those rash 
words that burned in her brain and throbbed through 
her whole being ? She was praying in a confused, fright¬ 
ened way, “ Keep me from temptation. Deliver me from 
evil.” How could she ever again meet the frank, true 
eyes of her friend, with the memory of those words of love 
and that kiss tingling on her lips ? Her heart was so full 
of shame and contrition she could have fallen at Winni- 
fred’s feet and bathed them with tears of repentance. 
Yirginie might have stolen out of the cottage and fled 
away into the night had not reason and reflection still been 
strong in Iter. Mrs. Halcourt’s letter could not reach Hope- 
dale before Thursday night. It was now Tuesday. M ight 
she not venture to remain secluded n the fisherman’s cot¬ 
tage, nursing little Jake, over the next day? Minnie was 
too busy and too happy to miss her, and she would rely 
with all her soul upon the promise of protection which she 
had extorted from Bradley. It was a great comfort to put 
off the necessity of immediate action—of thinking what she 
would do—even for a few hours, for her frame seemed 
drugged with languor, and only by a strong effort of will 
could she exert herself at all. Thus she sat outwardly pale 
and calm, trying to bear, and to be patient until dajdight 
came. 
The moon had risen, but it gleamed out fitfully between 
heavy masses of dark cloud, and a sad- low wind began to 
wail in the forest bordering the lake, while the little waves 
rippled mournfully against the shore. Between two blasts 
that scattered showers of dead leaves, Virginie first heard 
a low tapping at the pane. She bent forward, and grasped 
the arms of her chair, her lips apart, her cheek blanched, 
while her heart seemed to stop beating. It was the same 
signal by which Bradley had summoned her in the morn¬ 
ing. She did not answer, but sat gazing into space as if 
petrified. But the tapping continued, and a voice said in a 
half whisper, “ Mousie, are you there ? ” 
It was not Bradley’s voice, and she rose reluctantly, and 
went forward, and softly raised the sash. 
On the other side of the screen of leaves which the 
night-wind was rustling, stood Winnie, wrapped in her 
great furred cloak, with the hood drawn over her head, 
and looking preternaturally tall and shadowy. 
“Imust speak to you,” said she, in a penetrating whis¬ 
per; - ‘I have Hector with me, and you need not wait to 
get a wrap; my cloak is big enough to cover us both.” 
The boy was still sleeping; Virginie stole back to the 
bed to assure herself of the fact, and - then crept out of 
the house through a little passage. She shivered as Win¬ 
nie embraced her, and drew her in under the shelter of the 
big warm cloak, and in silence they began to climb the 
bank with Hector’s feet pattering on behind them. Among 
the trees it was almost palpably dark with faint patches of 
moonlight here and there cast down from between the 
shifting clouds. But Winnie, by a kind of cat-like instinct, 
kept to the path until they had got into the black shelter 
of the great pines, and below their eyes could discern 
the glimmer of the lake that lay spread out in a vague, 
whitish expanse. Then she sat down on the pine needles 
and drew her friend into her strong arms, while the dog 
kept rustling here and there, and the great boughs soughed 
overhead, 
“ Why do you tremble so ?” she asked in a whisper 
“ Are you afraid ? That cry is only the hooting of a 
screech-owl.” 
Virginie longed to shrink away from the warm protec¬ 
ting clasp, but she seemed held in a vise, and with a 
deadly sinking of the heart, she murmured, “ No, I am not 
afraid; but why have you come out here in the night ? ” 
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