160 
THE LADIES' FLORAL CABINET. 
she only dared leave an order with a florist to send him 
a few cut flowers ’every day, but there are several things 
to prevent. In the first place, cut flowers are expensive, 
aud Miss Montrose has taxed her slender purse as heavily 
as she dares in the help which she has already given to 
Jamie and his mother. Besides, she smiles to think of 
the dismay of the fashionable florist if he were ordered 
to send cut flowers to that dark, dismal, little room, 
with its miserable, squalid surroundings. Before her 
mind is half made up her own room is reached, and at 
the sight of her own little flower-stand, a thought 
strikes her. A growing plant? Yes, that might do, 
and it need cost her nothing for she can send one of her 
own, but which ?' She goes over them one by one, all 
the floral darlings which she has tended so carefully 
during the winter. This Tea Rose laden with its heavy, 
salmon-tinted buds ? No, they could never take care of 
it and it would be devoured by aphides. This Carna¬ 
tion, with its crimson-veined, creamy petals? No, the 
same objection applies to that. This Quaker-hued 
Heliotrope, with its rich, velvety fragrance, or the box 
of Mignonette, with its spikes of fragrant bloom? No, 
that dismal room needs something bright and gay. This 
scarlet Geranium, this or that other one with its masses 
of rosy blossoms? No, both are too large. It must be 
something fragrant, yet not too overpoweringly sweet, 
something bright and cheerful in color, something easy 
to care for and lift about. What is there that fulfills 
all these conditions? As if in answer to her question a 
slanting ray of sunlight strikes across a rustic bracket, 
bringing out a sudden gleam of ruby-colored splendor. 
Miss Montrose is quite alone in the world now, but it 
was not always so. It is not so very long since she too 
had a happy home, a father and mother—yes, and an¬ 
other, dearer, perhaps, than all, though the tie between 
them was one of feeling only. No words had been 
spoken which could give her a claim upon him when 
troubles came. He was only a young student, she 
scarcely more than a school-girl, when he had left her 
to finish his studies in Heidelberg. 
“You will not forget me, Nina? And—and—when I 
come back I shall have more to ask you. They say we 
are both too young yet. All I dare ask of you is to re¬ 
member and wait.” 
That was all that had passed between them, and 
though the faltering voice and the yearning eyes 
spoke another and deeper language, yet now, when 
troubles came thick and fast, could she take for granted 
what had never been put into words? Father and 
mother are both dead now, the home broken.up, and 
Nina Montrose is left to eke out her tiny income by 
giving music lessons. And so from that day—two 
years ago now, to this—no word has ever come to her 
from distant Heidelberg, perhaps because no word 
from her has ever traveled thither to tell what had 
befallen. 
It^is a simple object which has recalled this flood of 
old memories, just a ruby-colored Hyacinth glass, across 
which a slanting ray of sunlight strikes, bringing out 
the brilliant, glowing tints, as fresh and fadeless as 
those memories. But it is not for nothing that Miss 
Montrose has been living a busy, practical life for the 
last two years, or so she thinks as she looks at the vase. 
At two-and-twenty it is time to have done with dream¬ 
ing. Yet how well she remembers the day when it was 
brought to her, with one white Hyacinth shooting 
straight and fair from its ruby-colored vase. A white 
Hyacinth? Surely the very thing for the sick boy. 
The purity and fragrance of the flower, the vivid color¬ 
ing of the vase which holds it, are just wbat she has 
been seeking. But can she do it ? Can she span the 
fragile thing around which such precious memories 
cluster? Her face grows wistful, her eyes dreamy'as 
she looks at it. Then, with an impatient shake of her 
shoulders, she dismisses such sentimental fancies and 
takes down the vase which—is it from habit or from 
memory ?—for three years has never been without its 
white Hyacinth. The flower is near blooming now; the 
tall, straight stem shoots up from amidst its arrowy 
leaves, but the snowy petals, and the fragrance which 
is its soul, are still safely locked away in their green 
caskets, which only the golden ray of the sunlight can 
open. She would like to take it herself, but she has no 
time. Therefore a note is hastily written, a messenger 
summoned, and the flower goes its way on its mission 
of hope and healing. 
The two weeks are over, and Miss Montrose is again 
at home. Need we say that her first visit is to the alley 
back of Flagler Street? As she enters the door a change 
strikes her, or is it merely that she has grown used to 
the foul, untidy place ? No, surely it is more than that. 
Surely these steps have been swept, if not even scrubbed 
since her last visit. And, when the door of Mrs. Mor¬ 
row’s room opens to her knock, Miss Montrose almost 
rubs her eyes. Surely the room never looked so light 
and bright before. There is even a broad ray of sun¬ 
light lying where she never saw sunlight before, and in 
its very centre stands the Hyacinth, proudly curling 
back its snowy petals from its heart of fragrance. The 
window has been washed—that is the first thing she 
sees. The furniture is no longer dusty, the floor is no 
longer grimy, the wall is still battered, but the worst 
stains have been scraped or washed off. Most wonder¬ 
ful of all, the air of the room is fresh and pure, and the 
soft, rich fragrance of the flower floats through it un¬ 
checked. Mrs. Morrow, too, is changed. Her hair is 
smooth, her calico dress neatly mended and tidily put 
on. She looks what she is, a pretty, delicate woman, 
care-worn and haggard, it is true, but no longer vulgar 
or slatternly. And Jamie? Jamie is sitting well 
wrapped up in the low rocking-chair beside the little 
stove, gazing at the Hyacinth. When Miss Montrose 
enters, though, his sparkling eyes leave the flower to 
fix themselves upon her face and his little hands are 
stretched towards her with a glad cry of welcome. 
“ I hardly knew your room again,” says Miss Mon¬ 
trose, after a while. 
Mrs. Morrow’s face flushes and the tears spring to her 
eyes. 
“It was a dreadful place, I know, Miss,” she says, 
humbly, “ not fit for a lady to come to, but I was clear 
discouraged and nothing seemed to matter any more. 
I had worked my fingers to the bone, and my boy was 
dying, and I asked nothing better than to lie down in 
the dirt and die, too. I had no heart nor courage for 
cleaning. Then you came, but it was not even you so 
much, Miss, as that blessed flower you sent us. It 
seemed to put new life in Jamie the minute he saw it. 
He lay all day with his eyes fixed on it, and the next 
day he must sit up in bed so he could see it better. 
Then it was: ‘My flower wants sunshine, mother. 
Won’t you clean the window, so the flower and the 
