s at the same moment. Couldn't you name a few more,
Miss?"

"I beg pardon!" said Rose, laughing. "I will confine my attention to the
laburnum here. 'Allee same,' I don't believe you see that beautiful
mourning-bride behind you."

"Why mourning, and why bride?" asked Hildegarde, plucking some of the
dark, rich blossoms. "It doesn't strike me as a melancholy flower."

"I don't know!" said Rose. "I used to play that she was a princess, and
so wore crimson instead of black for mourning. She is so beautiful, it
is a pity she has no fragrance. She is of the teasel family, you know."

"Lady Teazle?" asked Hildegarde, laughing.

"A different branch!" replied Rose, "but just as prickly. The fuller's
teasel,--do you know about it, dear?"

"No, Miss Encyclopaedia, I do not!" replied Hildegarde, with some
asperity. "You know I _never_ know anything of that kind; tell me about
it!"

"Well, it is very curious," said Rose, taking the great bunch of
mourning-bride that her friend handed her, and separating the flowers
daintily. "The flower-heads of this teasel, when they are dried, are
covered with sharp curved hooks, and are used to raise the nap on
woollen cloth. No machine or instrument that can be invented does it
half so well as this dead and withered blossom. Isn't that interesting?"

"Very!" said Hildegarde. "Oh, dear! oh, dear!"

"What _is_ the matter?" cried Rose, in alarm. "Has something stung you?
Let me--"

"Oh, no!" said Hildegarde, quickly. "I was only thinking of the
appalling number of things there are to know. They overwhelm me! They
bury me! A mountain weighs me down, and on its top grows a--a teasel.
Why, I never heard of the thing! I am not sure that I am clear what a
fuller is, except that his earth is advertised in the Pears'
soap-boxes."

They both laughed at this, and then Hildegarde bent with renewed energy
over a bed of feathered pinks of all shades of crimson and rose-color.

"A mountain!" said Rose, slowly and thoughtfully, as she laid the
blossoms together and tied them up in small posies. "Yes, Hilda, so it
is! but a mountain to climb, not to be buried under. To think that we
can go on climbing, learning, all our lives, and always with higher and
higher peaks above us, soaring up and up,--oh, it is glorious! What
might be the matter with you to-day, my lamb?" she added; for Hildegarde
groaned, and plunged her face into a great white lily, withdrawing it to
show a nose powdered with virgin go