deacon did, than to be all the time fisting and jawing;
though I tell you what it is," said he, afterwards, "'tain't every one
that has the deacon's _faculty_, any how."

THE TEA ROSE.

There it stood, in its little green vase, on a light ebony stand, in the
window of the drawing room. The rich satin curtains, with their costly
fringes, swept down on either side of it, and around it glittered every
rare and fanciful trifle which wealth can offer to luxury; and yet that
simple rose was the fairest of them all. So pure it looked, its white
leaves just touched with that delicious creamy tint peculiar to its
kind; its cup so full, so perfect; its head bending as if it were
sinking and melting away in its own richness--O, when did ever man make
any thing to equal the living, perfect flower?

But the sunlight that streamed through the window revealed something
fairer than the rose. Reclined on an ottoman, in a deep recess, and
intently engaged with a book, rested what seemed the counterpart of that
so lovely flower. That cheek so pale, that fair forehead so spiritual,
that countenance so full of high thought, those long, downcast lashes,
and the expression of the beautiful mouth, sorrowful, yet subdued and
sweet--it seemed like the picture of a dream.

"Florence! Florence!" echoed a merry and musical voice, in a sweet,
impatient tone. Turn your head, reader, and you will see a light and
sparkling maiden, the very model of some little wilful elf, born of
mischief and motion, with a dancing eye, a foot that scarcely seems to
touch the carpet, and a smile so multiplied by dimples that it seems
like a thousand smiles at once. "Come, Florence, I say," said the little
sprite, "put down that wise, good, and excellent volume, and descend
from your cloud, and talk with a poor little mortal."

The fair apparition, thus adjured, obeyed; and, looking up, revealed
just such eyes as you expected to see beneath such lids--eyes deep,
pathetic, and rich as a strain of sad music.

"I say, cousin," said the "bright ladye," "I have been thinking what you
are to do with your pet rose when you go to New York, as, to our
consternation, you are determined to do; you know it would be a sad pity
to leave it with such a scatterbrain as I am. I do love flowers, that is
a fact; that is, I like a regular bouquet, cut off and tied up, to carry
to a party; but as to all this tending and fussing, which is needful to
keep them growing, I have no