ever do!

But this painful fact remains: my pale-blue silk is _not_ becoming!
I am entirely too dark to wear pale-blue, and I am just dying for a
terra-cotta. It's the loveliest shade in all the world! Papa likes blue,
so I ordered it to please him, because he is of the opinion that every
body looks well in that color, because mamma always looked well in blue
when she was young and beautiful. That reminds me what several old
married women said to me at the party to-night: "O, my dear, your mamma
was perfectly beautiful when she was your age! And she had so much
attention, and from such nice young men!" And they looked right at that
stupid fellow, for his silent stupidity had driven away all the other
men, who were just as nice as any of mamma's old beaus, too. But those
old ladies could not have meant any thing, because they are dear mamma's
most intimate friends, and I am sure must take a kindly interest in my
welfare. It's a dreadful thing to have had a beautiful mamma, when you
are not considered beautiful yourself, in fact barely good-looking.

But quickly to bed, or I will look what I am, tired and worn-out, at the
musicale to-morrow evening. I must be fresh and well-rested, because I
am to play, and alone, a most difficult instrumental piece. It's one of
those lovely "Nocturnes." I wonder if I'll be encored? I was not when I
played at the last musicale.

The lights are out! The fire burns low! I thrust back the little
dressing-table, with its pretty oval mirror, beveled edges, and dainty
drapery of pale pink silk and pure white mull. I tenderly take that
withered rose from off the floor, where I rudely tossed it in my anger
of an hour ago.

I forget that stupid fellow, my escort; the pale-blue dress, so often
worn; the random words--idle, thoughtless, and unkind, at least in
their effect; even pretty Belle Mason fades away, and her charm and
her triumph no longer remembered against her. I go a-drifting from all
unpleasant memories! I murmur a prayer learned at mamma's knee long
years ago, and alas! for long years left unsaid. I kneel in the
firelight glow, I tenderly, fondly kiss that red rose. True, it is
withered and dead, yet how sweet it is to my lips, and how dear it is
to my heart! Something whispers that I love the man who gave it me! It
seems to quiver to life again, and tremulous with a strange, new joy,
I remember the hand-touch and the smile which came with the giving of
that red rose.

[Illustrat