“Oh,” answered Rosa, “it is very dark.”
“Brown?”
“Darker than that.”
“Darker, my good Rosa, darker? thank you. Dark like”
“Dark, like the ink with which I wrote to you.”
Cornelius uttered a cry of mad joy.
Then suddenly stopping, and clasping his hands, he said,—
“Oh, there is not an angel in heaven that may be compared to you, Rosa!”
“Indeed!” said Rosa, smiling at his enthusiasm.
“Rosa, you have worked with such ardour; you have done so much for me. Rosa, my tulip is about to flower, and it will flower black. Rosa Rosa! you are the most perfect being on earth.”
“After the tulip, though.”
“Ah! be quiet, you malicious little creature, be quiet; for shame, do not spoil my pleasure! But tell me, Rosa; as the tulip is so far advanced, it will flower in two or three days at the latest?”
“To-morrow, or the day after.”
“Ah! and I shall not see it,” cried Cornelius, starting back, I shall not kiss it, as a wonderful work of the Almighty, as I kiss your hand and your cheek, Rosa, when by chance they are near the grating.”
Rosa drew near, not by accident, but intentionally, and Cornelius kissed her tenderly.
"Faith, I shall cull it, if you wish it.”
“Oh, no, no, Rosa, when it is open, place it carefully in the shade, and immediately send a message to Haarlem, to the President of the Horticultural Society, that the grand black tulip is in flower. I know well it is far to Haarlem, but with money you will find a messenger; have you any money, Rosa?”
