it actually rustles.
Grandmother knows so much, for she has lived long before father and
mother--that is quite sure.

Grandmother has a psalm-book with thick silver clasps, and in that
book she often reads. In the middle of it lies a rose, which is quite
flat and dry; but it is not so pretty as the roses she has in the
glass, yet she smiles the kindliest to it, nay, even tears come into
her eyes!

Why does Grandmother look thus on the withered flower in the old book?
Do you know why?

Every time that Grandmother's tears fall on the withered flower the
colours become fresher; the rose then swells and the whole room is
filled with fragrance; the walls sink as if they were but mists; and
round about, it is the green, the delightful grove, where the sun
shines between the leaves. And Grandmother--yes, she is quite young;
she is a beautiful girl, with yellow hair, with round red cheeks,
pretty and charming--no rose is fresher. Yet the eyes, the mild,
blissful eyes,--yes, they are still Grandmother's! By her side sits a
man, young and strong: he presents the rose to her and she smiles. Yet
grandmother does not smile so,--yes; the smile comes,--he is
gone.--Many thoughts and many forms go past! That handsome man is
gone; the rose lies in the psalm-book, and grandmother,--yes, she
again sits like an old woman, and looks on the withered rose that lies
in the book.

Now grandmother is dead!

She sat in the arm-chair, and told a long, long, sweet story. "And now
it is ended!" said she, "and I am quite tired: let me now sleep a
little!" And so she laid her head back to rest. She drew her breath,
she slept, but it became more and more still; and her face was so full
of peace and happiness--it was as if the sun's rays passed over it.
She smiled, and then they said that she was dead.

She was laid in the black coffin; she lay swathed in the white linen:
she was so pretty, and yet the eyes were closed--but all the wrinkles
were gone. She lay with a smile around her mouth: her hair was so
silvery white, so venerable, one was not at all afraid to look on the
dead, for it was the sweet, benign grandmother. And the psalm-book was
laid in the coffin under her head (she herself had requested it), and
the rose lay in the old book--and then they buried grandmother.

On the grave, close under the church-wall, they planted a rose-tree,
and it became full of roses, and the nightingale sang over it, and the
organ in the church played the