18 
THE LADIES' FLORAL CABINET. 
Miss Sylvia wants it more than I do. See, it is broken 
off. Now you will take it, won’t you.” 
There was such a world of wistful entreaty in Effie’s 
blue eyes, that Mrs. Campbell said no more, but took 
the flower and went to put on her bonnet, leaving a kiss 
on the child’s pale forehead. 
“Did she like it, mother?” Effie asked, eagerly, when 
Mrs. Campbell came back from her errand. 
“Like it!” said Mrs. Campbell, “ I only wish you 
could have seen her. Her cheeks turned pink, and her 
eyes sparkled, and even her hair seemed brighter. She 
looked like the little princess I used to know, again. 
‘ The dear little girl! ’ she said. ‘ Tell her how I love her 
for it, Mrs. Campbell. Her only flower ! I have seen 
her watching and tending it, and to think that she 
should give it up for me, a stranger.’ Then her cheeks 
turned pinker still, and the tears came into her eyes, 
and she turned away to put the flower in water. Then 
Mrs. Nesbitt spoke to me and asked how it was that my 
face seemed so familiar, and I told her how I used to go 
to the house in the old days, when everything was so 
different with her. She remembered me at once, and 
seemed to feel as if I was an old friend. She is a sweet 
lady, but, oh, so sad and changed. Miss Sylvia is com¬ 
ing over to-morrow, Effie, to thank you herself.” 
“Miss Sylvia coming to see me!” cried the child. 
‘ ‘ O that will be better than ten thousand flowers! How 
good of her.” 
All the next day Effie watched and waited, but four 
o’clock struck before she heard the knock at the door 
for which she had been listening. Then Sylvia came in, 
but not the pale, sad Sylvia whom Effie had learned to 
know. This was a new Sylvia, bright and beaming, 
flushed and radiant, ‘ ‘a real, truly fairy princess” thought 
Effie, as she looked at her. 
“You little darling ! ” said Sylvia, kissing her. “You 
will never know what you have done for me. Your 
flower came to me like a ray of the blessed sunshine and 
woke me up, soul and body. I had almost forgotten 
that there were such things as paints and brushes in the 
world, but the first thing I did, after I got your flower, 
was to unpack my old paint-box and try to take its por¬ 
trait. And, do you know, I actually found myself 
singing a little song while I painted—the first time in a 
whole year.” 
For a moment a shade dimmed the radiance of Sylvia’s 
eyes, and there was a faint sigh as she remembered why, 
for a whole year, she had ceased to sing, but then she 
went on as gaily as before. 
“ See, I have brought you two portraits of your darling 
flower. One is simply a portrait, and no more. The 
other will show you what your flower has done for me.” 
And from the tissue paper which she held in her hand 
she unwrapped two small pictures and held them out to 
Effie. The child caught her breath as she gazed, fearing 
almost to touch them, for she had never seen anything 
so beautiful before. One picture was, as Sylvia had 
said, simply the portrait of the flower, a delicate cluster 
of pearly blossoms and rosy buds, rising from amidst 
their, dark, glossy leaves. The other was this, and 
something more. For, from amid the snowy blossoms, 
the Angel of Hope floated upward as if borne upon the 
fragrance of the flower, her shining, white drapery 
blending with the white petals of the flower, her blue eyes, 
with their smile of tender exultation, raised toward the 
light which streamed over her floating golden hair. 
“They are beautiful!” whispered Effie, softly. “ How 
you, who can do such beautiful things, can ever be 
sad!” 
“Just now, thanks to you, Ifeelasif I should never be 
sad any more,” said Sylvia, smiling. “No, keep them, 
dear, if you care for them,” as Effie timidly offered her 
the pictures. “I have the flower, you know, and can 
reproduce them if I want to. Now, I must go, but I 
shall come and see you soon again, little Effie, if you 
care to see me, now that I am not a fairy princess any 
more.” 
For Mrs. Campbell had told her of Effie’s dreams and 
fancies, and how they had cheered the child’s lonely 
hours. 
It was the next morning that Mrs. Lawrence called to 
see about some work that Mrs. Campbell was doing for 
her. After she had given her directions, she swept 
over, in her rustling silks and rich furs, to speak to Effie. 
The child had propped the pictures up on a little stand 
before her, and was so absorbed in gazing at them that 
she scarcely noticed Mrs. Lawrence. 
‘' What beautiful cards !” cried Mrs. Lawrence, as she 
looked at them. “Surely, you did not do them, Effie? 
No, of course not; but who did? There is real artistic 
feeling here.”. 
“ It was a young lady,” said the child, “Miss Sylvia 
Nesbitt. She was a fairy-princess once, but she is poor 
now and her mother is sick, and they live in a room 
with no sun and no flowers. Isn’t it sad for a fairy- 
princess who had everything once ?” 
“Effie!” cried Mrs. Campbell, and Effie who had been 
talking half in a dream, started and flushed, and was 
silent. 
“ But is this true?” said Mrs. Lawrence, turning to 
Mrs. Campbell. “And do you think the young lady 
would be willing to paint cards and menus and such 
things? My husband is looking for some one to do just 
such work, and he would pay well for such exquisite 
things as these.” 
“ I will ask her, and let you know her answ T er to¬ 
morrow,” said Mrs. Campbell, cautiously. 
For, though in her own mind she was certain that 
Sylvia, to use her own phrase, would “jump at the 
chance,” she would not lower her favorite’s dignity one 
iota in the eyes of Mrs. Lawrence. 
“Would I be willing?” cried Sylvia, when Mrs. 
Campbell broached the subject to her, “ O, Mrs. 
Campbell! I cannot tell you how more than willing I 
am, how grateful to you aud to little Effie. After all, 
it was her doing. But for the Daphne blossom which she 
sent me, I might never have had courage to touch my 
paints and brushes again. Think of it, mamma ! To 
earn money for myself. Do you realize what that 
means? It means books, mamma, new books, a sub¬ 
scription to the Mercantile Library, so that when you 
are restless I can read you to sleep. And flowers—why, 
only think of it! flowers will no longer be an extrava¬ 
gance, but a necessity, for I must have them to copy. 
O, Mrs. Campbell! how can I thank you enough ? If I 
can only make*ten dollars it will be like new life.” 
When both sides are willing, it does not take long to 
come to an agreement. Soon Sylvia’s hands were full, 
and the graceful, fantastic designs and exquisite tinting 
of the cards which came from her deft fingers and fertile 
brain found no lack of buyers. Mr. Lawrence concluded 
that he had found a treasure, and Sylvia—what was it to 
