s
apple-scented leaves, to the splendid Provence rose. They grew near
the shelter of the walls, wound themselves round columns and
window-frames, crept along passages and over the ceilings of the
halls. They were of every fragrance and color.

But care and sorrow dwelt within these halls; the queen lay upon a
sick bed, and the doctors declared that she must die. "There is
still one thing that could save her," said one of the wisest among
them. "Bring her the loveliest rose in the world; one which exhibits
the purest and brightest love, and if it is brought to her before
her eyes close, she will not die."

Then from all parts came those who brought roses that bloomed in
every garden, but they were not the right sort. The flower must be one
from the garden of love; but which of the roses there showed forth the
highest and purest love? The poets sang of this rose, the loveliest in
the world, and each named one which he considered worthy of that
title; and intelligence of what was required was sent far and wide
to every heart that beat with love; to every class, age, and
condition.

"No one has yet named the flower," said the wise man. "No one
has pointed out the spot where it blooms in all its splendor. It is
not a rose from the coffin of Romeo and Juliet, or from the grave of
Walburg, though these roses will live in everlasting song. It is not
one of the roses which sprouted forth from the blood-stained fame of
Winkelreid. The blood which flows from the breast of a hero who dies
for his country is sacred, and his memory is sweet, and no rose can be
redder than the blood which flows from his veins. Neither is it the
magic flower of Science, to obtain which wondrous flower a man devotes
many an hour of his fresh young life in sleepless nights, in a
lonely chamber."

"I know where it blooms," said a happy mother, who came with her
lovely child to the bedside of the queen. "I know where the
loveliest rose in the world is. It is seen on the blooming cheeks of
my sweet child, when it expresses the pure and holy love of infancy;
when refreshed by sleep it opens its eyes, and smiles upon me with
childlike affection."

"This is a lovely rose," said the wise man; "but there is one
still more lovely."

"Yes, one far more lovely," said one of the women. "I have seen
it, and a loftier and purer rose does not bloom. But it was white,
like the leaves of a blush-rose. I saw it on the cheeks of the
queen. She had taken off her g