Therefore he rang for old Louisa, and since he made his
first fifty remonstrances always in a very mild tone, he spoke kindly
but firmly to her, as she put her head through the door.

"Louisa," he said, "you have given me lukewarm milk."

"Oh! no, sir," replied Louisa, "it was quite cold, it must have got warm
in standing."

"Then you must have had a fire in the room; it's very warm here this
morning."

No, Louisa had not had a fire; and she retired into the kitchen, very
much hurt.

He forgave her for the milk. But a look round the sitting-room made him
feel very depressed. I must tell you that he had built a little private
altar in a corner, near the piano, which consisted of a small table
with two silver candlesticks, a large photograph of a young woman, and
a tall, gold-edged champagne glass. This glass--it was the glass he had
used on his wedding-day, and he was a widower now--always contained a
red rose in memory of and as an offering to her who once had been the
sunshine of his life. Whether it was summer or winter, there was always
a rose; and in the winter time it lasted a whole week, that is to say if
he trimmed the stem occasionally and put a little salt into the water.
Now, he had put a fresh rose into the glass only last night, and to-day
it was faded, shrivelled up, dead, with its head drooping. This was a
bad omen. He knew what sensitive creatures flowers are, and had noticed
that they thrive with some people and not with others. He remembered how
sometimes, in his wife's lifetime, her rose, which always stood on her
little work-table, had faded and died quite unexpectedly. And he had
also noticed that this always happened when _his sun_ was hiding behind
a cloud, which after a while would dissolve in large drops to the
accompaniment of a low rumbling. Roses must have peace and kind words;
they can't bear harsh voices. They love music, and sometimes he would
play to the roses and they opened their buds and smiled.

Now Louisa was a hard woman, and often muttered and growled to herself
when she turned out the room. There were days when she was in a very bad
temper, so that the milk curdled in the kitchen, and the whole dinner
tasted of discord, which the conductor noticed at once; for he was
himself like a delicate instrument, whose soul responded to moods and
influences which other people did not feel.

He concluded that Louisa had killed the rose; perhaps if she had scolded
the poor thing, or kn