odor were there. The pastor’s little daughter, however, was a much more beautiful rose: she sate upon her little wooden stool under the wild untrimmed hedge, and kissed her doll with the broken face.
Ten years later I saw her again; I saw her in the splendid dancing-hall; she was the lovely bride of a rich tradesman, and I rejoiced in her good fortune. I visited her in the still evening. Alas! my rose had put forth also wild shoots like the roses in the pastor’s garden!
Every-day life has its tragedy—this evening I saw the last act. Sick to death, she lay in that narrow street, upon her bed. The wicked landlord, her only protector, a man rude and cold-hearted, drew back the curtain. “Get up!” said he, “thy cheeks are pale and hollow; paint thyself! Get money, or I will turn thee out into the streets! Get up quickly!”
“Death is at my heart!” said she, “oh! let me rest!”
He compelled her to rise; painted her cheeks, twined roses in her hair, placed her at the window, with a burning light beside
