"Oh, Bride! And do they use Bride roses for"--

_The Florist:_ "Yes; and for weddtings, too; for everything." The lady
leans back a little and surveys the flowers critically. A young man
enters, and approaches the florist, but waits with respectful impatience
for the lady to transact her affairs. The florist turns to him
inquiringly, and upon this hint he speaks.

_The Young Man:_ "I want you to send a few roses--white ones, or nearly
white"--He looks at the lady. "Perhaps"--

_The Lady:_ "Oh, not at all! I hadn't decided to take them."

_The Florist:_ "I got plenty this kindt; all you want. I can always get
them."

_The Young Man_, dreamily regarding the roses: "They look rather
chilly." He goes to the stove, and drawing off his gloves, warms his
hands, and then comes back. "What do you call this rose?"

_The Florist:_ "The Pridte."

_The Young Man_, uncertainly: "Oh!" The lady moves a little way up the
counter toward the window, but keeps looking at the young man from time
to time. She cannot help hearing all that he says. "Haven't you any
white rose with a little color in it? Just the faintest tinge, the
merest touch."

_The Florist:_ "No, no; they are whidte, or they are yellow;
dtea-rhoces; Marshal Niel"--

_The Young Man:_ "Ah, I don't want anything of that kind. What is the
palest pink rose you have?"

_The Florist_, indicating the different kinds in the vases, where the
lady has been looking at them: "Well, there is nothing lighder than the
Matame Cousine, or the Matame Watterville, here; they are sister
rhoces"--

_The Young Man:_ "Yes, yes; very beautiful; but too dark." He stops
before the Madame Hoste: "What a strange flower! It is almost _black_!
What is it for? Funerals?"

_The Florist:_ "No; a good many people lige them. We don't sell them
much for funerals; they are too cloomy. They uce whidte ones for that:
Marshal Niel, dtea-rhoces, this Pridte here, and other whidte ones."

_The Young Man_, with an accent of repulsion: "Oh!" He goes toward the
window, and looks at a mass of Easter lilies in a vase there. He speaks
as if thinking aloud: "If they had a little color--But they would be
dreadful with color! Why, you ought to have _something_!" He continues
musingly, as he returns to the florist: "Haven't you got something very
delicate, and slender, about the color of pale apple blossoms? If you
had them light enough, some kind of azaleas"--

_The Lady_, involuntarily: "Ah!"

_The Flor