bed of vivid green moss, where skilful hands had
grouped great drooping sprays of waxen begonias, coral, faint pink, and
ivory, all powdered with gold dust like that which gilds the heart of
water-lilies.

Such treasures were reserved for the family of Dives; and counting her
pennies, Beryl entered the store, where instantaneously the blended
breath of heliotrope, tube-rose and mignonette wafted her across the
ocean, to a white-walled fishing village on the Cornice, whose gray
rocks were kissed by the blue lips of the Mediterranean.

"What is the price of that cluster of Niphetos buds?"

"One dollar."

"And that Auratum--with a few rose geranium leaves added?"

"Seventy-five cents. You see it is wonderfully large, and the gold
bands are so very deep."

She put one hand in her pocket and fingered a silver coin, but poverty
is a grim, tyrannous stepmother to tender aestheticism, and prudential
considerations prevailed.

"Give me twenty-five cents worth of those pale blue double violets,
with a sprig of lemon verbena, and a fringe of geranium leaves."

She laid the money on the counter, and while the florist selected and
bound the blossoms into a bunch, she arrested his finishing touch.

"Wait a moment. How much more for one Grand Duke jasmine in the centre?"

"Ten cents, Miss."

She added the dime to the pennies she could ill afford to spare from
her small hoard, and said: "Will you be so kind as to sprinkle it? I
wish it kept fresh, for a sick lady."

Dusky shadows were gathering in the gloomy hall of the old tenement
house, when Beryl opened the door of the comfortless attic room, where
for many months she had struggled bravely to shield her mother from the
wolf, that more than once snarled across the threshold.

Mrs. Brentano was sitting in a low chair, with her elbows on her knees,
her face hidden in her palms; and in her lap lay paper and pencil,
while a sealed letter had fallen on the ground beside her. At the sound
of the opening door, she lifted her head, and tears dripped upon the
paper. In her faded flannel dressing-gown, with tresses of black hair
straggling across her shoulders, she presented a picture of helpless
mental and physical woe, which painted itself indelibly on the panels
of her daughter's heart.

"Why did you not wait until I came home? The exertion of getting up
always fatigues you."

"You staid so long--and I am so uncomfortable in that wretchedly hard
bed. What detained you?"