grow."

And you cannot tell which will grow. A weed grew by the wayside in the
old world. All it did was to furnish seed for the wind, and worry for
the farmer. But one blustering day, the wind carried a seed from the
wayside weed into a florist's garden; it sprouted, rooted and bloomed.
The gardener was impressed by the beautiful coloring of the blossom,
so he nurtured, transplanted and cultivated it into a beautiful
flower. It was from this bush, once a weed, Queen Victoria selected
the flower she carried when she entered the Crystal Palace to meet the
world's representatives.

When Delia Laughlin went astray, her father drove her from his door.
She was of that temperament that must either go to the heights or to
the depths, and to the depths she went. Down the rapids of a sinful
life her steps were swift. Along the Bowery she made her way to Five
Points, where thieves and drunkards dwelt. It was said she could drink
deeper, curse louder, and fight fiercer than any inmate of the most
wicked spot in New York City. Mrs. Whittemore went one day on her
mission of mercy through the slums. She sought some one to accompany
her who knew the deepest haunts of the wicked. Delia Laughlin was
recommended to her. Mrs. Whittemore, with her Bible in one hand and a
fragrant rose in the other, made her rounds. She was deeply impressed
with the intellect and culture, as well as the beauty of the wayward
girl who had been her guide through the slums. "Dear girl," she said;
"you are too bright and beautiful to be down here. I wish you would
come to see me at the Door of Hope Mission," and slipping a coin and
the white rose into the soiled fingers she said, "Good-bye."

The girl loved flowers, so she took the white rose to her room and put
it in water. Then with the coin she went to drown her misery in drink.
Forty-eight hours later she had slept off the debauch, and taking the
flower from the vase she said: "Ah! that represents my life. Once I
was as pure as the rose when the good woman gave it to me. Those
withered petals represent the withered graces of my life." From out
that little flower an arrow went to the heart of Delia Laughlin. She
took the street car and went to the Door of Hope Mission. Mrs.
Whittemore met her and they talked together. While the girl wept Mrs.
Whittemore prayed; she said: "O God, this poor girl has no other
friend than you. Her father's home is closed against her. You have
promised, when father and mother