language oe flowers. 
was born of the Mother of Love. So Love found bis 
sweet and long-lost sister in the Rose, and she first 
spoke to him in the old language of the flowers, 
giving him a new lesson every day ; until not a bell 
bowed, nor a bud expanded, nor a blossom opened 
its beautiful lips, but what Love knew every word 
it whispered. 
For days did Love linger with his sweet sister, 
the Rose, before he again set out on his pilgrimage; 
but his journey was now no longer lonely ; he found 
a companion in every flower by the wayside, and 
held converse with every bud that dwelt within its 
green homestead of leaves. The Honeysuckle told 
him how, in the olden age, she was the emblem of 
Devoted Affection ; how she twined over rural and 
primeval huts, when love alone was counted happi¬ 
ness and the only wealth man coveted was the pos¬ 
session of a true heart—one that loved for evermore, 
and, throughout all the changes of time, for ever 
remained the same. The Lily blushed as he drew 
near, and across her pearly whiteness stole a 
crimson shadow, as if a winged rose had hovered 
above her for a moment, and then passed on ; and 
with downcast eyes she told him, that to her 
belonged Purity of Heart; that she was once so 
holy a sanctuary, that even angels had deigned to 
dwell with her, and in their love for so spotless an 
abode had forfeited the domains of Heaven. The 
