140 LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
vases of flowers, where the image of the Virgin was 
faintly lighted by a single lamp, knelt a girl of 
about eighteen, absorbed in devotion, and her dark 
eyes filled with tears. She was one of those nymph¬ 
like figures which the magic pencil of Angelica 
Kauffman was fond of transferring to the canvas. 
In her clasped hand she held a bouquet of clove 
carnations, tied with a silk ribbon, of the delightful 
colour of hope. ‘With such devotion prays the 
saint in that masterpiece of Garofalo’s in the cathe¬ 
dral of Ferrara, in whose folded hands the artist 
in allusion to his own name has placed a nosegay 
of the same flowers. The morning was so lovely 
and the air so mild that I had left the carriage to 
follow me, and was walking forward alone. Near 
the chapel I seated myself on a mass of rock. The 
girl rose from prayer, and presently appeared a 
hale young man driving three loaded horses. The 
moment she saw him she flew into his arms. Not 
a word passed on either side. Amidst tears and 
kisses, she presented to him the bouquet of carna¬ 
tions with an inexpressible look of tenderness, 
strove to speak, but could not utter a word. The 
young man placed the flowers in his bosom with as 
