“Young, in ‘Night Thoughts,’ says that hope is a milder 
tyrant than despair; Cazlyle says that it is a smiling rain- 
bow; Shakespeare says that the miserable have no other medi- 
cine but hope.” . 
“That you have imparted to us some of the sayings of 
great writers concerning hope,” said Flora, “let us hear what 
you have to say.” ; 
“To be a certainty, my dear Flora. I say that hope is 
an eternal spring of confidence in one’s self, a trust based 
on the future of obtaining some good, revenge, desire, what- 
soever a person would like to have or do in the future; hence, 
hope is life to be lived tomorrow, wishing to have or do 
something good or bad.” 
‘ “Ah,” said Louis, “that is the best I have ever heard on 
ope. 
“And,” continued I, “every flower has an interpretation. 
The birch 1s gracefulness; hickory, glory; gillyflower, lasting 
beauty; auricula, painting; while angelica is inspiration. Con- 
trariwise, there are many other flowers with similar interpre- 
tations which are too numerous to mention.” 
“Are there any interpretations of hope,” interrogated 
Grace, “whose flower is birch?” H 
‘ “Oh, yes. Hawthorn signifies hope, and so does bird- 
cherry. 
. “Fell us about one of these hope flowers,” requested 
ouis, 
“With pleasure. Bird-cherry, which is known by the 
atin name Prunus Padus, class twelve, Icosandria, order 
Mongynia, is indigenous in most parts of Europe; it even 
Opens its fragile flowers to the nipping air of Russia and 
Siberia. It abounds in the northern countries of England, 
being profusely scattered among the woods and borders of 
the mountain torrents of Scotland. In these natural fast- 
nesses, where it is more likely to escape the stroke of the 
axe, it often rises to the height of fifteen feet from a stem 
eighteen inches in diameter, spreading its branches to a con- 
siderable distance,” 
._ So we talked on and on, now and then smiling, laugh- 
ing, joking, philosophizing. And, that Grace was an artist, 
a sweet young woman of seventeen, one who could sew, 
play the piano, draw, write poetry, in a word, an accom- 
plished queen, a modern Hortense, she drew me as I sat 
before her, making me without one flaw, my eyes, nose, ears, 
mouth, chin, hair, my entire upper body being drawn per- 
fectly. After this, we had ice cream and cake, whereupon, it 
being ten-thirty at night, I rose from my chair, asked for 
my hat, then adjusted myself for my departure. This being 
the case, Grace said to me: 
64 
